How many palms have we climbed without ladder, And how many offenses of friends have we overlooked! O sweet, O beautiful, thy letter came to us; As we read it how our tears flowed. O excellent, sweet, moving thy lips, Thou hast wounded hearts; we beg thee let us come to thee. For my friend, friendship should abide; As for the disloyal the day of judgment shall find him. For what reason dost thou close thine eyes without sleepiness? Thou pleasest not me but other people. I shall rush on you at noon, you who are in my mind; With the sword shall I [over] throw you with high windows. With the sword shall I charge you in the darkness of the night; I’ll take my sword and cause the blood to flow. O beloved, O beloved, thou whom the heart desires, Since the day of thy departure my heart counts the nights. Thou oughtest to be sorry for leaving us, Thou wilt weep tears of grief when thou seest us. I passed by their house and said not a word; The tears of my eyes dropped before me on the stone. The tree of love is cast out by the gate of Damascus; I was dying and my friend came not to me. The tree of love at the gate of Damascus is swaying; I was dying and my friend did not come to ask. O tree of love, at the gate of Damascus, it is green; I was near to dying and my friend came not once. Do not think that good style consists in ample clothes; Good style is providing dishes for the men. Do not think that good style consists in elegant robes; Good style consists in large trenchers, in kindness and generosity. O Egypt, O how far off art thou, in whom is the beloved! If I live another year I must surely live in thee. O sweet one, bring thy bottle and we’ll drink and fill it; Thy people are far and thy country’s water is scarce. What brought thee forth, O gazel, to roam? To look on thy country, O sweet, and return. What brought thee from thy country, single, alone? I want to look on thy country and I want a friend. Our dear ones, because of their ambition, they left us; Because of scarcity of money they traded among us. O heart, leave them, count them as dead; I put them in my eye and they did not fit. O seller of coffee, I want a ruṭl of thy coffee; Yesterday afternoon I saw the woman who bought of thee. O daughter of the Arab shaykh, O wearer of the blue mantle, Thy father is an Arab shaykh ruling o’er the Belḳâ. O daughter of the Arab shaykh, O wearer of the black mantle, Thy father is an Arab shaykh ruling o’er the ‛Aujâ. O daughter of the Arab amîr, O Turcomany, Untie the fastenings of the shoes and walk. O daughter of the Arab amîr, we can find no fault in thee; Thy father is a pasha and thy uncle is an Arab shaykh. The eyebrow of the eye deserves burning, Of that one who winks at a low fellow. SONG OF THE DABKEH