عُلوجَ بَني كَعبٍ بِأَيِّ مَشيئَةٍ

تَرومونَ ياحُمرَ الأُنوفِ مَرامي

How far, O sons of Ka'b, is the goal you seek,

With your insolent reddened noses, to attain?

نَفَيتُكُمُ مِن جانِبِ الشامِ عَنوَةً

بِتَدبيرِ كَهلٍ في طِعانِ غُلامِ

I drove you forcibly away from Syria's side

By an old man's contrivance and a brave youth's strain,

وَفِتيانِ صِدقٍ مِن غَطاريفِ وائِلٍ

خِفافِ اللِحى شُمِّ الأُنوفِ كِرامِ

And true young warriors of bright blades from Ghatafan,

Soft-chinned but hawks of nose, and honor's flower and main.