يَا حَبَّذَا يَوْمُنَا وَنَحْنُ عَلَى

رُؤُوسِنا نَعْقِدُ الأَكَالِيْلاَ

O what a day when on our heads

We braid wreaths,

فِي جَنَّةٍ ذُلِّلَتْ لِقَاطِفِهَا

قُطُوفُهَا الدَّانِيَاتُ تَذْلِيْلاَ

In a garden made smooth for its picker

Whose fruits bow down in meekness,

كَأَنَّ أُتْرُجَّهَا تَمِيْلُ بِهِ

أَغْصَانُهَا حَامِلاً وَمَحْمُولاَ

As if its apple trees leaned over

Bending boughs that bear and are borne,

سَلاَسِلٌ مِنْ زَبَرْجَدٍ حَمَلَتْ

مِنْ ذَهَبٍ أًصْفَرٍ قَنَادِيْلاَ

Chains of aquamarine carried

By yellowish gold, little bells.