Pitched upon the scorching desert
The tents of Hussain lay.
Encompassed round with satan's hounds
Upon that sad day.
They numbered less than eighty strong,
Women and children too.
Whilst Yazid's thousands stood around,
Awaiting the Fiend's cue.
Driven away from the cooling stream,
His children waiting for water;
Awaiting with patience extremely sublime,
Little sheep for the butcher's slaughter.
O! How valiantly fought that pitiful few,
Against Yazid's vile murderers.
Fought with a courage unequalled in Time,
Fought with a fierceness that was surely divine.
The earth quaked and trembled as noon drew near,
But still the survivors knew no fear.
But fewer and fewer grew that pitiful band,
For Islam, God and Hussain, they stand.
At last, all were dead. The Devil had won.
Blood red sank down the merciless sun.
Trampled and torn by the gallant Hussain.
For Islam, and God, the Faithful were slain.