يا اِبنَ الَّتي لَبِثَت مَلِيّاً في اِستِها

أَيرٌ وَفي حِرِها كُراعُ بَعيرِ

O son of her who dwelt in the tents of her people!

In the heat of noon in the valley of Najd where the burning sand-grouse are easily snared,

قَد كُنتُ لا أَهوى السِبابِ فَسَبَّني

أَحلامُ طَيرٍ في قُلوبِ حَميرِ

I was not wont to revile men, but they gave me cause to do it.

Vain dreams of wild bulls in the hearts of mules.