The water deep, in boat,
Or raft-sustained, I’d
go;
And where the stream did narrow seem,
I dived or breasted through.
I labored to increase
Our means, or great or small;
When ’mong friends near death did
appear,
On knees to help I’d
crawl.
No cherishing you give,
I’m hostile in your
eyes.
As pedler’s wares for which none
cares,
My virtues you despise.
When poverty was nigh,
I strove our means to spare;
You, now rich grown, me scorn to own;
To poison me compare.
The stores for winter piled
Are all unprized in spring.
So now, elate with your new mate,
Myself away you fling.
Your cool disdain for me
A bitter anguish hath.
The early time, our love’s sweet
prime,
In you wakes only wrath.
Soldiers of Wei Bewail Separation from Their Families
List to the thunder and roll of the drum!
See how we spring and brandish
the dart!
Some raise Ts’aou’s walls;
some do field work at home;
But we to the southward lonely
depart.
Our chief, Sun Tsze-chung, agreement has
made,
Our forces to join with Ch’in
and with Sung.
When shall we back from this service be
led?
Our hearts are all sad, our
courage unstrung.
Here we are halting, and there we delay;
Anon we soon lose our high-mettled
steeds.
The forest’s gloom makes our steps
go astray;
Each thicket of trees our
searching misleads.
For death as for life, at home or abroad,
We pledged to our wives our
faithfulest word.
Their hands clasped in ours, together
we vowed,
We’d live to old age
in sweetest accord.
This march to the South can end but in
ill;
Oh! never shall we our wives
again meet.
The word that we pledged we cannot fulfil;
Us home returning they never
will greet.
An Officer Tells of His Mean Employment
With mind indifferent, things I easy take;
In every dance I prompt appearance make:—
Then, when the sun is at his topmost height,
There, in the place that courts the public
sight.
With figure large I in the courtyard dance,
And the duke smiles, when he beholds me
prance.
A tiger’s strength I have; the steeds
swift bound;
The reins as ribbons in my hands are found.
See how I hold the flute in my left hand;
In right the pheasant’s plume, waved
like a wand;
With visage red, where rouge you think
to trace,
While the duke pleased, sends down the
cup of grace!
Hazel on hills; the ling in meadow
damp;—
Each has its place, while I’m a
slighted scamp.
My thoughts go back to th’ early
days of Chow,
And muse upon its chiefs, not equalled
now.
O noble chiefs, who then the
West adorned,
Would ye have thus neglected
me and scorned?