But the time has come for the procession to move, and we go along slowly
enough. The bride rides a mare, led by one of Shaheen's brothers, and as
we pass the fountain, the people pour water under the mare's feet as a
libation, and Handûmeh throws down a few little copper coins to the
children. The women in the company set up the zilagheet, a high piercing
trill of the voice, and all goes merry as a marriage bell. When we reach
the house of Shaheen, he keeps out of sight, not even offering to help
his bride dismount from her horse. That would never do. He will stay
among the men, and she in a separate room among the women, until the
hour of the ceremony arrives.

But the women are singing again, and this time the song is really
beautiful in Arabic, but I fear I have made lame work of it in the
translation:

Allah, belaly, belaly,
Allah, belaly, belaly,
May God spare the life of your sire,
Our lovely gazelle of the valley!
May Allah his riches increase
He has brought you so costly a dowry;
The moonlight has gone from his house,
The rose from his gardens so flow'ry.
Run away, rude men, turn aside,
Give place to our beautiful bride:
From her sweet perfumes I am sighing,
From the odor of musk I am dying.
Come and join us fair maid, they have brought you your dress,
Leave your peacocks and doves, give our bride a caress;
Red silk! crimson silk! the weaver cries as he goes: