On we file in a winding Caravan,
Caravan made of children and chairs.
Bold Arabs are we,
Adventurers free,
The chairs are our Camels: dried figs are our wares.
Over the hot desert sands we are travelling,
Travelling on to Cairo gates.
Rugs gathered in lumps
Give our Camels their humps,
And our supper is made of a few dried dates.
Sparingly must we drink of the waterskin,
Waterskin made of a nursery jug.
For the water must last
Till the desert is past
We must measure it out in the doll's little mug.
Here's the Simoom, with the blast of a hurricane,
Hurricane whirling the sand in drifts.
We must lie down beside
Our Camels, and hide
Till the storm blows past, and the darkness lifts.
Look! Yonder afar are Cairo's Minarets,
Minarets glittering gold in the sun.
A few leagues more
And our travels are o'er,
And the journey of Camel and rider is done.
F. W. Home.
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