The Arab Warrior

Go, ask of men that know my name, And they the truth will speak,

That I'm the terror of the strong, The helper of the weak.

My spear has made the dragon brood

Succumb to galling bands, And tossed before the jaws of War

The forage he demands.

I steer my horse through stormy fights, As a seaman steers his craft ;

My joy, to splinter on my breast The foeman's flying shaft.

I am the latest laid to rest, The earliest in the fight,

And while the others idly feast I rub my harness bright.

And while the booty they divide I heap the ranks of slain,

And when they scorn my poverty, I scorn their greed of gain.