72
While the horse-tails are dashing
Afar in the van;—
See where yon pale crescent
And green turban shine,
There, smite for the Prophet,
And Othman's great line!
Allah, il allah!
The fierce war-cry is given,—
For the flesh of the Giaour
Shriek the vultures of heaven.
Allah, il allah!
Allah, il allah!
How thick on the plain,
The infidels cluster
Like ripe, heavy grain.
The reaper is coming,
The crooked sickle's bare,
And the shout of the Faithful
Is rending the air.
Bismillah! Bismillah!
Each far-flashing brand
Hath piled its red harvest
Of death on the land!
Allah, il allah!
