Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/154



Ouglou is on! Tchassan Ouglou is on! And with him to battle The faithful are gone. Allah, il allah! The tambour is rung; Into his war-saddle Each Spahi hath swung;— Now the blast of the desert Sweeps over the land, And the pale fires of heaven Gleam in each Damask brand. Allah, il allah!

Tchassan Ouglou is on! Tchassan Ouglou is on! Abroad on the winds, all His Horse-tails are thrown. 'Tis the rush of the eagle D own cleaving through air,—