لَقَد ماتَ جَنِيُّ الصِبا مُنذُ بُرهَةٍ

وَتَأبى عِفارِيَ القَلبِ غَيرَ مَرودِ

The youth of springtime died long ago

And my heart refuses all but grief's return

أَمَرَّت وَأَمرَت أُمُّ دَفرٍ وَإِن حَلَت

فَكَم حَلَأَت قَوماً غَداةَ وَرودِ

Time passed, time passed, though the mother of exile slowed it

How often has it revived a folk come the morrow of departure?

شرِبتُ بُروداً لَم يَدَع نارَ غُلَّةٍ

وَعَن مَنكِبي أَلقَيتُ خَيرَ بُرودِ

I drank a draught that left no burning thirst

And from my shoulder cast the best of cloaks

فَإِنَ قتَيرَ الشَيبِ لَم يَحمِ جانِباً

فَكانَ بِعَكسٍ مِن قَتيرٍ سَرودِ

If the scant hoariness of age brought no profit

It was the opposite of scanty, a streaming flood

أَقيمي فَإِنّي لا رَقيمِيَ مُعجِبي

وَرودي فَإِنّي لا أَهَشُّ لِرُوَدِ

Raise me up, for I please not those who praise me

Turn me back, for I fear not the threat of refusal

أَعَزُّ بَني الدُنِّيا بِغَيرِ مَذَلَّةٍ

مُبينُ وَجاً مِنها فَقيدُ شُرودِ

I live nobly in this world without disgrace

Showing openly a face bound by duty's rein

بِعَقّاقَةٍ أَهلَ العَقيقِ وَمَنعَجٍ

وَزَرادَةٍ بِالحَتفِ أَهلَ زَرودِ

With lofty Acacias, those who dwell in Acacia

And the twisted trunks, people of Sarwad

فُرودُ السَواري وَالتَوائِمُ في الدُجى

تُقِرُّ لِرَبٍّ صاغَها بِفُرودِ

The bracelets' jingle and the anklets' chime in the gloaming

Praising a Lord who created them with grace