Mansur II poem

They ask me why fine robes I do not wear, Nor covet stately tent with carpets rare. 'Midst clash of arms, what boots the minstrel's power? 'Midst rush of steeds, what place for rose-girt bower? Nor wine nor sweet-lipped Sake aught avail Where blood is splattered o'er the coats of mail. Arms, horse for me, banquet and bower enow, Tulip and lily mine the dart and bow.