POETRY.
BY JEDDAH TOWN.
THREE were ten Arabs in the plain, who met him with his guide, The Sheikh of them rode forward then, to talk at eventide. He said: "The desert is a place where rarely strangers thrive, Give up your horse, give up your gun, and you'll go home alive."
He answered to the Arab Sheikh : "Peace on you and your kin, But I shall give my horse to-night to ostlers at the Inn. My race is not a humble folk whom such as you bid walk, Have you no powder with your ten that one comes out to talk ?"
And silence fell between the two. The Moslem pulled his rein, Then, " Here's the truth of El Hejaz, why should brave men be slain ?
You have ten Beduw lances, four Beduw shots to fear."
But gaily laughed the Englishman, " I have five bullets here."
"It's full a league to Jeddah Town, the evening will be done Before you reach the tomb of Eve and the Turkish garrison, Resign yourself to Allah's will, and see to-morrow's sun, And go in peace, you cannot fight, for we are ten to one."
They shot at him against the light, and twice they missed him wide, Then swiftly up behind him came Mahmoud, his desert guide. He shot his guide and still he had four bullets that he stored, And when his horse fell, wounded, three. He would not use his sword.
They followed him as kites that mark a stag that's soon to die, Unfalteringly he held his way, his gallant head was high. Eleven fighters crossed the sand, their shadows grew apace, While ten of them were taught the truth about his English race. They had but one shot still to fire. The world was very still, And safety shone from Eve's white tomb, that shone a tiny hill. Their last shot failed, and he went on content that he had won, And glad to see the glory of the blood-red setting sun.
The desert is a cruel place, where rarely strangers thrive, He shot his horse, he shot his guide, but he walked home alive.
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