Moorish Literature Part 35

And his lieutenant, named Oulyd-el-Hadj Oualy, is a fool Who thinks his word superior to all, And that there's no one like him in this world.

When he has gone there and come back again, He will be perfect. All he contradicts Who speak to him, and will not let them lift A finger. Little love he hath for those Who speak with candor, but he's very fond Of liars, and always bids them come to him.

"My childhood was so pampered!" he remarks, And flies into a pa.s.sion if one doubts.

He only lives on semolina coa.r.s.e, And empty is his paunch, all slack and limp.

Yet every day he tells you how he's dined.

"I have discovered," he is wont to say "A certain semolina lately brought By a Maltese, who lives some distance off.

You never saw the like. I'm going to have Some fine cakes made of it, and some _meqrout_."

And El-Hadj Mostefa was dragged along By all these lies and by the love of gain.

If G.o.d had not abandoned him, he'd be Still making lasts. But 'twas the crowd that led Him on, and that is how it came to pa.s.s.

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 c.o.c.k, 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 a.s.saoua.

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 has.h.i.+sh 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 st.u.r.dy 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 s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned 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.

Oh, welcome, Sydy Omar! All of Paris Is charmed to see you, O my Snybla dear!

If he would only go to Mexico, And stay there it would be a riddance good.

He is a cafekeeper, and his son A baker. For a.s.sociate he has Sydy Aly Mehraz, who does his work Astride a thorn; he surely doth deserve Our compliments. All three you see are dressed In duck, in fas.h.i.+on of the Christian men.

There's de Merzong; the people say he's good, But still they fear him, he is so uncouth.

Good G.o.d! When he begins aloud to cry In Soudanese, it is enough to make You fly to the antipodes away.

Oulyd ben Zamoum saw his cares increase-- Since he is a musician, as he thinks, The world is rid of him. And when he starts To play the first string of the violin, The while the Jewess doth begin to sing!

With him two Jews departed, and the like You never saw on earth. A porcupine The first resembled, and the other one Was one-eyed. You should hear them play the lute!

Some persons heard my story from afar, Oulyd Sydy Sayd, among them, and Brymat, who laughed abundantly. And with Them was the chief of Miliana. All Were seated on an iron bench, within The right-hand shop. They called me to their booth Where I had coffee and some sweets. But when They said, "Come take a smoke," I was confused.

"Impossible," I answered, "for I have With Sydy Hasan Sydy Khelyl studied, And the Senousyya. So I cannot."

Ben Aysa came to me, with angry air, "The Antichrist," he said, "shall spring from thee.

I saw within that book you have at home His story truly told." "You're right," said I, "Much thanks!" And then I laughed to see Him turn his eyes in wrath.

He said to me 'Tis not an action worthy of a man; He glared at me with eyes as big as cups And face an egg-plant blue. He wanted to Get at me, in his rage, and do me harm.

With him my uncle was, Mahomet-ben-El-Haffaf, who remains at prayer all day.

He heard this prelude and he said to them, "It is not an affair." "Fear not," they said, "For they will put you also in the song."

He's tickled by the urchins' eulogies, Who praise him as the master of chicane.

"'Tis finished now for thee to climb up masts."

They add: "You're but a laughing-stock for all.

You've stayed here long enough. You'd better go And teach Sahary oxen how to read!"

When I recited all these lines to Sy Mahomet Oulyd el-Isnam, who has To the supreme degree the gift of being A bore he said to me, "Now this is song Most flat." The mice in droves within his shop Have eaten an ounce of wool.

He is installed Within the chamber of El Boukhary.

In posture of a student, in his hands Some sky-blue wool. "It is," he says, "to make Some socks for little children, for I have But little wool."

When I had finished quite This dittyramb, and El-Hadj-ben-er-Rebha Became acquainted with it, he began To laugh, telling his beads the while, and then His decoration from his wallet took, Which had been there enclosed.

My song spread wide.

They found it savory. Respected sirs, It is the latest Friday in the month Of El Mouloud and in the year we call Twelve hundred ninety-four, that I complete This tale fantastic.

Would you know my name?

I am Qaddour, well known to all the world, Binder to Sydy Bou Gdour, and attired In gechchabyya-blouse. And if my back Were not deformed, none could compete with me.

They told me, "When those folk come back again Thou'd better hide thyself for fear of harm.

They'll break thy hump and send thee home to heaven."

"Oh, I'll protect myself," I said, "or else complain To the police."

If I were not so busy I'd still have many other things to say.

Those who have heard my prattle say it's good; So say the singers and musicians, too, Ez Zohra ben-el-Foul among them, who Pays compliments to me, from window-seat.

He who hath nothing found that's useful here Will find in this my song what suits him best.

But if he wants to see here something more, Then stretch him 'neath the stick and give him straight A thousand blows upon the belly; then Take him away to the physician, who Will bleed him well.

And now may hearts not be Made sad by what I have so lightly said.