"Away, away, my barb and I,"
As free as wave, as fleet as wind,
We sweep the sands of Araby,
And leave a world of slaves behind.

'Tis mine to range in this wild garb,
Nor e'er feel lonely though alone;
I would not change my Arab barb,
To mount a drowsy Sultan's throne.

Where the pale stranger dares not come,
Proud o'er my native sands I rove;
An Arab tent my only home,
An Arab maid my only love.

Here freedom dwells without a fear--
Coy to the world, she loves the wild;
Whoever brings a fetter here,
To chain the desert's fiery child.

What though the Frank may name with scorn,
Our barren clime, our realm of sand,
There were our thousand fathers born--
Oh, who would scorn his father's land?

It is not sands that form a waste,
Nor laughing fields a happy clime;
The spot, the most by Freedom graced,