Butrus in the distant country calls, “O, Ḥanna, take me back to my country.” The gun appears, but the lion appears not; Lo, the strap of the gun is damp with mist. The gun appears, but the lion comes not; Lo, the strap of the gun is dripping with mist. (_At the time of the burial_) O my sorrow, there are his people; Early were they at the burial place. Early rose the sexton for the burial, And the ḥarîm is soiled with dust. The women of his kindred rend their finery For Butrus who sank into the grave. The women of his kindred tear their coverings, Because Butrus is left in America. (_Impersonating Butrus_) Don’t take me down into the ships, My sister on the seashore is grieving. Don’t take me down to the foreign ships, My sister on the seashore is calling. (_The mourners_) O my sorrow, they went on the seas and remained: Oh, I wonder how they are, have they changed? O my sorrow, they went on the seas and stayed the night: Oh, I wonder how they are, or are they dead? Bring me knowledge, O great bird, O little one; America, is it far away and without a wall? Bring me knowledge, O bird, O birds; America, is it far away and without measure? Greet them, O bird, O pigeon, In their far country setting up the tents. (_Impersonating Butrus_) On the shore of the sea the gazels are browsing; Oh, the descent to the ship, it is bad. On the shore of the sea the gazels are airing; Oh, the descent to the ship, it is bitter. On the seashore, wondering whither to turn, Appear, O Na‛meh! the ship goes. At the hospital I am thirsty, I want to drink; Bid me good-by, my brother, the ship goes. (_The mourners_) Write on the flat slate, “Thy time came; what could we do, my spirit?” Write on the flat marble, “Thy time came; what could we do, my precious one?” O scribe, writing with a costly pencil, Greet the absent one and clasp hands. (_Impersonating Butrus_) Thy robe is long, Na‛meh, cut from it; Have slight regard for fine appearance when we are gone. Thy robe has a long trail; Have little care for fine style when we are gone. (_The mourners_) The tassel on his head-gear dangles; Tell his mother to continue mourning. The tassel on his head-dress droops; Tell Na‛meh to quit fine dressing. (_Introducing the refrain at the mill_) Say to us, O Na‛meh, in the night, “How often have I worn the best of silk!”