نَعَماني بِشَربَةٍ مِن طِلاءٍ

نَعَماني بِشَربَةٍ مِن طِلاءٍ

نَعمتِ النّيمُ مِن شَبا الزَمَهريرِ

نَعمتِ النّيمُ مِن شَبا الزَمَهريرِ

Delight me, you two, with a draught of boiled wine—

With a cup of paint

What fine fur against the sting of bitter cold!—

A comfort filled breeze from the youthful chatterbox

مِن كَمَيتٍ أَجادها طابِخاها

مِن كَمَيتٍ أَجادها طابِخاها

لَم تَمُت كُلُ مَوتِها في القُدورِ

لَم تَمُت كُلُ مَوتِها في القُدورِ

Of dark-red wine, perfected by its two cooks;

From a generous pot its cook excelled at

It did not die its full death in the cooking pots.

Not all of it died in the pots