كتبت يا سَيِّدي كِتاباً

يَحسدهُ الروضُ وَالغَديرُ

I wrote, my lord, a book

That meadow and pond would envy,

لكِنَّ تحبيرَه بحبرٍ

أَنكَرَه رَقُهُ الحَبيرُ

But in inking it with ink

Its polish was made ugly.

فَعَدَّ عَنهُ إِلى دَواةٍ

قَليلُ تَأثيرها كَثيرُ

So it turned from it to a pen

Whose little leaves much sway,

وَخُذ دواتي بِلا اِمتِنانٍ

فَرُبَّما يغرَمُ المشيرُ

And take my pen without obligation -

Perchance the adviser may pay.