| Into the tavern came, cup in hand, Yon sweetheart of mine |
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| It may be, o heart, that the doors Of the winehouses they shall open |
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| If life last me and the tavern I once more attain another |
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| From the Elder of the Magians This pronouncement do I hold |
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| Come, comrade, come, that roses strew And wine in bowl that cast we may |
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| Hands we lift anights to heaven, So a prayer that we may make |
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| Glad that day will be when, parting, From this waste abode go I |
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| By the Vizier's soul and the ancient right And the covenant firm I swear |
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| The Bulbul at dawn To the wind of the East his lament made |
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| She bore away my heart And hid from me her face made |
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