O Saud, I have maternal uncles and kinsmen,
in the heart of Najd, their marks firmly established.
Protectors of the villages, their rifles ever ready,
leaving the gravel‑dwellers scattered in the dunes.
They circled Kashb, fierce as falling stones,
only the head of a spear rose above the dust.
They descended, and the echo of their deeds is known,
ask about them—no news will be hidden.
Uncles whose side we stand by and honor,
when the hardships of nights bring sorrow.
They entered Najd where blood ran red,
never did they commit a shameful act.
They charged and fought—groups split and rejoined,
until they faced arrows with their own chests.
From al‑Dhuwaybi to the Diyahin to Adham,
and Mdaawi al‑Zaydi—they all tasted defeat.
When he blocked the path before Wadi al‑Mawsim,
he did not spare his men from falling like stars.
And Abu Dakhan was taken on a day of triumph,
its spoils divided among the warriors.
Ask Bani Salim and you will learn,
of a night when resolve was tested and lost.
From them we slew every armed warrior,
even if they had slain my uncle and torn my flesh.
And with the companion, the men of Mazham testify,
they carried their wounded despite the blows.
They seized al‑Mutairi and the fierce al‑‘Arafah,
bound in iron, tied with ropes.
They charged forward, their chests facing bullets,
until they returned with their garments white with dust.
Today we live honored among all people,
under rulers who are our kin and guardians.
We sleep beneath the banner of our great Fahd,
who strengthens our unity and protects our creed.
In peace, the elders of our tribe are respected,
our seniors honored through long nights.
And our young, if burdened, say “At your service,”
our kinship protected by the mercy of God.
Whoever ignores God’s commands loses his way,
deprived of all goodness.
Our youngest never speaks foolishly,
and when a guest arrives, worries vanish.
For the weak, we offer eyes and provisions,
always watching over their needs.
Not like the lowly who lurk in shadows,
who accuse their neighbors of falsehood.
If he cannot walk straight, he turns and mutters,
a fool with vultures circling his head.
Our refugee sleeps honored and protected,
until we settle his dispute with his enemies.
Either we reconcile them in peace,
or we defend him with our faces in battle.
The guest receives our welcome before he speaks,
we never ask what he brings or needs.
He may stay a month, honored and fed,
served from stores covered in fat.
Our custom in hardship is generosity,
when little and much are both scarce.
In our hearths you find the purest coffee,
ground in yellow stone mortars that never rest.
Yellow and new, their craft unmatched,
their makers sealing them with their marks.
We pour cardamom upon them generously,
its scent known among the tribes.
Always with the blue Indian incense,
its fragrance precious and rare.
And the bugle that calls to gatherings,
we serve its cup in the center of the assembly.
We are devoted to protecting the weak,
their blood defended among all people.
Every dishonorable man bears witness against us,
and the lowly and envious—may they never rise.
These are the deeds of our tribe, never regretted,
the sons of al‑Dalabah, masters of honor.
Notes
- The poet refers to al‑Dhuwaybi, leader of Bani Salim of Harb, and the well‑known confrontation between them and the Dalabah of ‘Utaybah.
- He also refers to the Diyahin of Mutair and the tribe of Adham in the south, and similar encounters.
- He mentions Mdaawi al‑Zaydi, who rebelled against King Saud during the siege of Najran. The Dalabah were tasked with capturing him and raising the flag in his region.
- He refers to rescuing their companion, Ibn Madlij al‑Mutairi, from the custody of Prince Saud al‑‘Arafah and his followers—a well‑known story among ‘Utaybah.