Allah, il Allah! the infidel’s doom
Knells through the desert from rescued Khartoum.
The blood of the Giaour is encrusting our swords,
And the vultures encircle his perishing hordes.
The gleam of our banners, the blaze of our spears,
Have blanched the black heart of the pale-face with fears.
How he reels, how he staggers in agony back!
Spur, sons of the desert, swift, swift on his track!
The dwellers in cities may quake at his frown,
When his fireships fling ruin and death on their town,
But the hearts of the tribesmen are fearless and free
As the winds of the desert or waves of the sea;
And their valor will scatter his merciless bands
As the fiery sirocco whirls broadcast our sands,
Their fury will break on his terrified host
With the strength of the tempest that lashes our coast.
Poor, pitiful fool! in his arrogant pride
He would chain the tornadó and fetter the tide;
He has tempted our wrath, and he trembles aghast
As bursts on his legions the death-dealing blast;
And, shattered in fragments, his gaudy array
Is melting before our wild charges in spray;
Around him destruction in lurid cloud rolls,
And Eblis is yawning for infidel souls!
Allah, il Allah! for God and the right,
Press on, lance and spear, to the glorious fight;
Though our life-blood in torrents should crimson our plains,
Better freedom in death than existence in chains.
On, lions of Islam, the wolves are afraid,
See, see, how they shrink from your conquering blade!
Strike swiftly, and spare not—yon turbanless crowd
Sought our desert for conquest to find it their shroud.