Hear what has happened to those negro scamps,
  Musicians—­rogues, and Aissaoua. 
  They spoke of nothing but their project great. 
  Bad luck to him who lacks sincerity!

  On learning of the tour of Rayyato
  They all began to cry and run about,
  Half with bare feet, although the rest were shod. 
  The Lord afflicts them much in this our world. 
  ’Twas only negroes, poor house-colorers,
  Who did not follow them about in crowds.

  The Christian Salvador put them on ship. 
  One felt his breast turn and exclaimed, “I’m sick.” 
  A wench poured aromatics on the fire,
  And thus perfumed the air.  For Paris now
  They’re off, to see the great Abd-el-Azyz.

  The Christians packed them like a cricket-swarm,
  Between the sea and church, upon the wharf
  He drew them, wonders promising, and led
  Them but to beggary.

                        He takes them to
  His land to show them to the chief of all
  His masters, to the Emperor.  He hopes
  To get a present and thus pay them back,
  Retaining all the money he advanced.

[A] Former student of the Medersa of Algiers, bookbinder, lutemaker, and copier of manuscripts, Qaddour ben Omar ben Beuyna, best known among his coreligionists as Qaddour el Hadby (the hunchback), who died during the winter of 1897-1808, has sung for thirty years about all the notables of his city.

This lively poem was composed by him on they occasion of the departure for
Paris of a band of musicians, singers, and Aissaoua, who figured at the
Exposition of 1867, under the direction of a professor of music named
Salvador Daniel.  The original is in couplets of six hemistichs.

  Perhaps they’ll show themselves upon some stage
  Or elsewhere as his fancy leads.  The blacks
  Begin to dance to sound of castanets. 
  The Christians bet on what will happen next.

  They say a letter has arrived which says
  That they’ve suppressed ablutions and their prayers. 
  One has been very ill—­“I do not know
  What is the matter with me”—­but the cause
  Of all his illness was because he fell
  On the perfuming-pans that they had brought.

  For Imam they have ta’en the dancing-girl
  Who leads the dances.  With her boxes small
  In basket made of grass, a picture fine! 
  Come, see it now; you’d think it was a ghost.

  The Christian works them all, and most are seized
  With folly.  Would you know the first of all? 
  Well, sirs, ’tis Et-Try, and he is the son
  Of one Et-Germezlyya.  Never has
  He thought of doing well, he lives for crime.

  The shrewd “Merkanty” made a profit on them. 
  Et-Try served them as an interpreter. 
  The Christian ought to make them this year gain
  A thousand d’oros.  But I pray to God
  To send those two men to the fires of hell.