One hand is on his pistol, On its ornamented stock, While his finger feels the trigger And is busy with the lock- The other seeks his Ataghan, And clasps its jewell'd hilt- Oh!
"The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood"
Thomas Hood
Well may he swear his Ataghan Shall rout the traitor swarm, And carve them into Arabesques That show no human form- The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds Invite the savage Moor, And tempt him with the ancient Key To seek the ancient door!
"The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood"
Thomas Hood