I buckle to my slender side
  The pistol and the scimitar,
And in my maiden flower and pride
  Am come to share the tasks of war.
And yonder stands my fiery steed,
  That paws the ground and neighs to go,
My charger of the Arab breed,--
  I took him from the routed foe.

My mirror is the mountain spring,
  At which I dress my ruffled hair;
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring,
  And wash away the blood-stain there.
Why should I guard from wind and sun
  This cheek, whose ****** rose is fled?
It was for one--oh, only one--
  I kept its bloom, and he is dead.

But they who slew him--unaware
  Of coward murderers lurking nigh--
And left him to the fowls of air,
  Are yet alive--and they must die.
They slew him--and my ****** years
  Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now,
And many an Othman dame, in tears,
  Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow.

I touched the lute in better days,
  I led in dance the joyous band;
Ah! they may move to mirthful lays
  Whose hands can touch a lover's hand.
The march of hosts that haste to meet
  Seems gayer than the dance to me;
The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet
  As the fierce shout of victory.