Consider now the plight of Ould Sayyd,
The big-jawed one. He gained ten thousand francs,
And lost them all at gambling. Naught remains
Except the benches and some coffee-grounds.
The leader of musicians, wholly daft,
Whose beard is whiter than the whitest wool,
Has gone to Paris gay to see the sights.
(I hope he'll bring up in the fires of hell!)
If he comes back deceived, at least he'll say
He's been abroad, and dazzle all his friends.
The oboe-player, Sydy Ali, was
Barber and cafekeeper, eager for
A change, and crazy to get gold. "This trip,"
He told his friends, "is but a pilgrimage."
There's nothing lacking but the telbyya.
"I've taken trips before and with good luck.
I was the master, with my art acclaimed.
I was director of the Nouba, at
The court, when Turkey held the reins of power.
I was a court buffoon and broke my heart.
O Lord, why send'st thou not thy servant death?
"I left a workman in my shop so that
I might not lose my trade. I went to show
My oboe, for someone might ask for it.
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