With them is donkey-faced Hamyda, who
  Sold flowers in the market-place.  He left
  His family no coins to live upon,
  But told them only:  “Moderate your pace. 
  I’ll buy a house for you when I get back,
  And we shall live in plenty evermore.”

  Sydy Ahmed et Tsoqba timbals had
  As big as goat-skin bottles.  He desired
  To play in unison, but the musicians all
  Abhorred him, for he could not keep in time.

  The heart of Sydy Ahmed glows with love
  For Ayn-bou-Sellouf, who is very fair. 
  I hope that cares and fainting-fits may swell
  Him out, and yellow he will straight become
  As yellow as a carrot in a field.

  I love Sydy-t-Tayyeb when he sings
  And plays the tambourine.  Such ugliness
  My eyes have never seen.  You’d think he was
  A clown.  He says:  “No one could vanquish me
  Were I not just a trifle ill to-day.”

  Qaddour, the little cock, the drummer-boy,
  Who hangs on walls and colors houses here
  Or tars roofs with his mates, exclaims:  “I took
  This voyage just to get a bit of air.”

  Koutchouk stayed here, he did not go away. 
  Fresh apricots he sells down in the square. 
  “Repose,” he murmurs, “is the best of foods,
  And here my little heart shall stay in peace.”

  When Abd-el-Quader, undertaker’s son. 
  Falls in his fits of folly, he binds round
  His figure with a cord and does not lie
  Inert and stiff.  But still they scorpions see
  In Altai’s hand, Chaouch of Aissaoua.

  Faradjy—­fop—­eats fire and fig-leaves now;
  The while Hasan the Rat excites him on
  To doughty deeds with his loud tambourine. 
  Playing with all his might and all his soul. 
  They dragged the hedge-rows green of El Qettar
  To pay this tribute to the Emperor.

  That fop, Ben Zerfa, who chopped hashish seeds
  Among us here, said:  “We have had good luck
  This summer, and I’m going to pay my debts. 
  I’ll execute my drill with stick and sword
  And serve my sheik the very best I can.”

  If you had seen Ben Zerfa as he ran,
  So lightly, bearing on his sturdy back
  A basket filled with, heaven alone knows what! 
  It looked like cactus-pears, the basket closed.

  El Hadj Batata—­see his silly trance! 
  With shirt unbuttoned and with collar off,
  And cap on eyes, at beating of the drums,
  He shows his tuft denuded all of hair. 
  Even Mostafa ben el Meddah desired
  To go to Paris and his fortune make. 
  “On my return,” he said, “I’ll buy a lamp,
  A coffee-tray, and goodly sugar-bowl;
  A big and little mattress, too, I’ll buy,
  A carpet and a rug so soft and fine.” 
  Es Snybla, bellows-faced, who used to work
  For our good mayor, off to Paris went
  To make the soldiers’ coffee.  When he comes
  Back home again, so much he will have earned. 
  He will be richer than a merchant great.