Moorish Literature Part 34

O G.o.d majestic, pardon this poor wretch!

Pardon, O Lord and Master, him who grieves!

Just three-and-twenty years! That was the age Of her who wore the silken sash. My love Has followed her, ne'er to revive within My widowed heart. Console me, Mussulmans, My brothers, for the loss of my sweet one, Gazelle of all gazelles, who dwelleth now In her cold, dark, eternal home.

Console me, O young friends, for having lost Her whom you'd call a falcon on its nest.

Naught but a name she left behind which I Gave to the camp wherein she pa.s.sed away.

Console me, men, for I have lost my fair, Dear one, that silver _khelkals_ wore.

Now is she covered with a veil of stone, On strong foundation laid. Console me, friends, For all this loss, for she loved none but me.

With my own hands my love's chest I tattooed, Likewise her wrists, with checkered patterns odd, Blue as the collar of the gentle dove.

Their outlines did not clash, so deftly drawn, Although without _galam_--my handiwork.

I drew them 'twixt her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and on her wrists I marked my name. Such is the sport of fate!

Now Sa'yd, always deep in love with thee, Shall never see thee more! The memory Of thy dear name fills all his heart, my sweet.

Oh, pardon, G.o.d compa.s.sionate, forgive Us all. Sa'yd is sad, he weeps for one Dear as his soul. Forgive this love, Lord!

Hyzyya--join them in his sleep, O G.o.d most high.

Forgive the author of these verses here!

It is Mahomet that recites this tale.

O Thou who hast the future in thy hand, Give resignation to one mad with love!

Like one exiled from home, I weep and mourn.

My enemies might give me pity now.

All food is tasteless, and I cannot sleep.

I write this with my love but three days dead.

She left me, said farewell, and came not back.

This song, O ye who listen, was composed Within the year twelve hundred finished now, The date by adding ninety-five years more. [1295.]

This song of Ould-es-Serge we have sung In Ayd-el-Rebye, in the singing month, At Sydy-Khaled-ben Sinan. A man, Mahomet ben Guytoun, this song has sung Of her you'll never see again alive.

My heart lies there in slim Hyzyya's tomb.

THE a.s.sAOUA IN PARIS[A]

Come, see what's happened in this evil year.

The earthquake tumbled all the houses down, Locusts and crickets have left naught behind.

Hear what has happened to those negro scamps, Musicians--rogues, and a.s.saoua.

They spoke of nothing but their project great.

Bad luck to him who lacks sincerity!

On learning of the tour of Rayyato They all began to cry and run about, Half with bare feet, although the rest were shod.

The Lord afflicts them much in this our world.

'Twas only negroes, poor house-colorers, Who did not follow them about in crowds.

The Christian Salvador put them on ship.

One felt his breast turn and exclaimed, "I'm sick."

A wench poured aromatics on the fire, And thus perfumed the air. For Paris now They're off, to see the great Abd-el-Azyz.

The Christians packed them like a cricket-swarm, Between the sea and church, upon the wharf He drew them, wonders promising, and led Them but to beggary.

He takes them to His land to show them to the chief of all His masters, to the Emperor. He hopes To get a present and thus pay them back, Retaining all the money he advanced.

[A] Former student of the Medersa of Algiers, bookbinder, lutemaker, and copier of ma.n.u.scripts, Qaddour ben Omar ben Beuyna, best known among his coreligionists as Qaddour el Hadby (the hunchback), who died during the winter of 1897-1808, has sung for thirty years about all the notables of his city.

This lively poem was composed by him on they occasion of the departure for Paris of a band of musicians, singers, and Aissaoua, who figured at the Exposition of 1867, under the direction of a professor of music named Salvador Daniel. The original is in couplets of six hemistichs.

Perhaps they'll show themselves upon some stage Or elsewhere as his fancy leads. The blacks Begin to dance to sound of castanets.

The Christians bet on what will happen next.

They say a letter has arrived which says That they've suppressed ablutions and their prayers.

One has been very ill--"I do not know What is the matter with me"--but the cause Of all his illness was because he fell On the perfuming-pans that they had brought.

For Imam they have ta'en the dancing-girl Who leads the dances. With her boxes small In basket made of gra.s.s, a picture fine!

Come, see it now; you'd think it was a ghost.

The Christian works them all, and most are seized With folly. Would you know the first of all?

Well, sirs, 'tis Et-Try, and he is the son Of one Et-Germezlyya. Never has He thought of doing well, he lives for crime.

The shrewd "Merkanty" made a profit on them.

Et-Try served them as an interpreter.

The Christian ought to make them this year gain A thousand d'oros. But I pray to G.o.d To send those two men to the fires of h.e.l.l.

Now Aly Et-Try is their manager; He runs about all day, with naught achieved.

The Christian kept them in a stable shut, And like a squad of soldiers took them out.

He herded them like oxen there, and naught Was lacking but the drover's l.u.s.ty cries.

Consider now the plight of Ould Sayyd, The big-jawed one. He gained ten thousand francs, And lost them all at gambling. Naught remains Except the benches and some coffee-grounds.

The leader of musicians, wholly daft, Whose beard is whiter than the whitest wool, Has gone to Paris gay to see the sights.

(I hope he'll bring up in the fires of h.e.l.l!) If he comes back deceived, at least he'll say He's been abroad, and dazzle all his friends.

The oboe-player, Sydy Ali, was Barber and cafekeeper, eager for A change, and crazy to get gold. "This trip,"

He told his friends, "is but a pilgrimage."

There's nothing lacking but the telbyya.

"I've taken trips before and with good luck.

I was the master, with my art acclaimed.

I was director of the Nouba, at The court, when Turkey held the reins of power.

I was a court buffoon and broke my heart.

O Lord, why send'st thou not thy servant death?

"I left a workman in my shop so that I might not lose my trade. I went to show My oboe, for someone might ask for it.

I used to travel with musicians once."

G.o.d bless him!--what a workman. He conversed With all the customers who pa.s.sed that way.

He took them in the shop and told his case-- "I'm here for a short while." Then he began To praise his patron, who, he said, would have A gift for him.