1. To you, O father of cubs, my mare hastened,
Racing against the howdahs, her saddlebags fluttering.

2. Her forelocks met above the smooth earth,
To you her galloping and early rising.

3. Our mounts defend her with their mouths
Whenever her flanks are exposed in the fray.

4. You see every distinguished mare lower her shoes
When the string of her saddlebag follows the saddlebags.

5. To a lion my mare went with my saddle, risking
Pastures where his roar almost deafens.

6. The earth shakes under him though intact
When it hears him or his den is flashed open.

7. And I used to ask the postman, anxiously,
My soul dreading its conscience,

8. About events I feared might touch you
If the Turks met the Muslims with their raiding parties.

9. You are a man in people with no tribe
That allies with them but values its supporter.