The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/Ouglou's Onslaught

by William Motherwell

Ouglou's Onslaught.

A Turkish Battle-Song.

 

Tchassan Ouglou is on!
Tchassan Ouglou is on!
And with him to battle
The faithful are gone.
Allah, il allah!
The tambour is rung;
Into his war-saddle
Each Spahi hath swung;—
Now the blast of the desert
Sweeps over the land,
And the pale fires of heaven
Gleam in each Damask brand.
Allah, il allah!

Tchassan Ouglou is on!
Tchassan Ouglou is on!
Abroad on the winds, all
His Horse-tails are thrown.
'Tis the rush of the eagle
D own cleaving through air,—

'Tis the bound of the lion
When roused from his lair.
Ha! fiercer and wilder
And madder by far,—
On thunders the might
Of the Moslemite war.
Allah, il allah!

Forth lash their wild horses,
With loose-flowing rein;
The steel grides their flank,
Their hoof scarce dints the plain.
Like the mad stars of heaven,
Now the Delis rush out;
O'er the thunder of cannon
Swells proudly their shout,—
And sheeted with foam,
Like the surge of the sea,
Over wreck, death, and woe, rolls
Each fierce Osmanli.
Alla, il allah!

Fast forward, still forward,
Man follows on man,

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!

Mark, mark yon green turban
That heaves through the fight,
Like a tempest-tost bark
'Mid the thunders of night;
See parting before it,
On right and on left,
How the dark billows tumble,—
Each saucy crest cleft!
Ay, horseman and footman
Reel back in dismay,
When the sword of stern Ouglo
Is lifted to slay.
Allah, il allah!

Alla, il allah!
Tchassan Ouglou is on!
O'er the Infidel breast
Hath his fiery barb gone:—
The bullets rain on him,
They fall thick as hail;
The lances crash round him
Like reeds in the gale,—
But onward, still onward,
For God and his law,

Through the dark strife of Death
Bursts the gallant Pacha.
Allah, il allah!

In the wake of his might,
In the path of the wind,
Pour the sons of the Faithful,
Careering behind;
And bending to battle
O'er each high saddle-bow,
With the sword of Azrael,
They sweep down the foe.
Allah, il allah!
'Tis Ouglou that cries,—
In the breath of his nostril
The Infidel dies!
Allah, il allah!