Whose slender and delicate fingers,
Persuaded the lute as a lover
Persuadeth the heart of his mistress
To tender and passionate things.
Ah, none will now pause in the Market,
To hear in the twilight of springtime,
When flowers that bloom in the country,
Have scented the heart of the town,
The songs of that Sultan of Singers,
We called the Caresser of Lutestrings,
Who lies in the gloom of the Kasbah,
Whose lute is for ever laid down.
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