1. In your shooting arrows are instruments of conquest supreme, They never miss their mark nor swerve aside, Though Arabs’ bows pursue them fiercely, no shield can Turn back their flight when once your arrows are sped. And the helmets the Turks wear cannot save them When you have aimed from behind those helmets their death. When your bright swords flash forth, their gleam is lightning, And when our steeds career, their gallop is thunder; And each of our chargers is forced by the yearning Within him to race like a torrent adown a ravine. He carries his rider to plunge in the carnage, Seeking the enemy’s heart as a passionate lover seeks The heart of the maid he adores. And brightly your lover Comes riding to you, like a star shooting flame; He spurns every fear, he rides straight as an arrow, To scatter your foes from around you, beloved, And strike down the knaves who dare talk of dishonour.