It was Friday,
Night to Saturday,
The feast in Malakiave was at its height,
A paper arrived from Jazireh city;
Taken and fetched to Malakiave,
It was handed over to the Prince of Mogk.
A thousand laments over the Prince of Mogk.

He took and read it aloud
In the mellifluous sweet voice of his.
His eyes opened wide and his chin dropped,
The red vanished away from his robust cheeks.
A thousand laments over the Prince of Mogk.

He called his farmer and ordered at once,
“Bring out my Bedouin horse from the barn,
Lay the nacre saddle; I am setting out
To travel until Jazireh town.”
A thousand laments over the Prince of Mogk.