أَلا بِأَبي بِلادُكِ يا سُلَيْمى

وَما ضَمَّ العُذَيْبُ مِنَ الرُّبوعِ

O Sulaima, by your homeland I implore

And what the aromatic tree encloses

وَلي نَفَسٌ إِذا هَيَّجْنَ وَجْدِي

يَكادُ يُقيمُ مُعْوَجَّ الضُّلوعِ

My soul, when stirred, can almost set aright

The ribs made crooked from the spite it knows

فَلَمْ أُزِرِ الدِّيارَ الطَّرْفَ حَتّى

نَفَضْتُ بِهِنَّ أَوْعِيَةَ الدُّموعِ

I had not visited long when from my eyes

Poured down the vessels brimmed with tears inside