إِذا وَجَرٌ عَظيمٌ فيهِ شَيخٌ

مِنَ السودانِ يُدعى الشَرَّتَينِ

In a vast cavern dwelt an old Negro

Called Sherteen; with him I entered his cave

وَأَدخُلُ وَجرَهُ أَمشي بِكَفّي

حُسامُ الحَدِّ ماضي الشَفرَتَينِ

Walking erect, with naked blade in hand,

Two-edged, well tempered, as swift to assail.

تُقَلِّبُ فاتِرا خِدراً كَليلاً

فَلَم أَرَ مِثلَ تِلكَ الحُرَّتَينِ

I found him faint, nerveless, dull of sense,

But never saw I one with harder nails,

فَلَم أَرَ مِثلَ مَحبُوٍّ أَتاها

وَلَم أَرَ مِثلَ فيها مَلثَمَينِ

Nor ever one who sent me more in love

Of wearing black, becoming brow and chin.