WHOM dost thou seek, sweet mother? Come, tremble not, draw near! Gaze on thy son’s blood-streaming wounds Without a sigh or tear. Let Turkish mothers rend their hair; Do thou glad news to Zeitoun bear !
As, by my cradle, thou didst soothe With tender hand and smile My childish form to sleep, and sing With angel voice the while, Lay me to rest, without a care, And joyful news to Zeitoun bear !
Red floods are welling from my wounds, But, mother, look around; See how the fierce blood-thirsty Turks By thousands strew the ground ! Our swords devoured them, scattered there : Then joyful news to Zeitoun bear!
They smote us like a dragon, With sudden roaring deep; But Zeitoun shook her rocky head,