A fruit, small as the garden peach,
    May still be used for food. 
  A State, though poor as ours, might thrive,
    If but its rule were good. 
  Our rule is bad, our State is sad,
    With mournful heart I grieve. 
  All can from instrument and voice
    My mood of mind perceive. 
  Who know me not, with scornful thought,
    Deem me a scholar proud. 
  “Those men are right,” they fiercely say,
    “What mean your words so loud?”
  Deep in my heart my sorrows lie,
    And none the cause may know. 
  How should they know who never try
    To learn whence comes our woe?

  The garden jujube, although small,
    May still be used for food. 
  A State, though poor as ours, might thrive,
    If but its rule were good. 
  Our rule is bad, our State is sad,
    With mournful heart I grieve. 
  Methinks I’ll wander through the land,
    My misery to relieve. 
  Who know me not, with scornful thought,
    Deem that wild views I hold. 
  “Those men are right,” they fiercely say,
    “What mean your words so bold?”

  Deep in my heart my sorrows lie,
  And none the cause may know. 
  How can they know, who never try
  To learn whence comes our woe?

The Mean Husband

  Thin cloth of dolichos supplies the shoes,
    In which some have to brave the frost and cold. 
  A bride, when poor, her tender hands must use,
    Her dress to make, and the sharp needle hold. 
  This man is wealthy, yet he makes his bride
    Collars and waistbands for his robes provide.

  Conscious of wealth, he moves with easy mien;
    Politely on the left he takes his place;
  The ivory pin is at his girdle seen:—­
    His dress and gait show gentlemanly grace. 
  Why do we brand him in our satire here? 
    ’Tis this—–­his niggard soul provokes the sneer.

A Young Soldier on Service

  To the top of that tree-clad hill I go,
    And towards my father I gaze,
  Till with my mind’s eye his form I espy,
    And my mind’s ear hears how he says:—­
  “Alas for my son on service abroad! 
    He rests not from morning till eve. 
  May he careful be and come back to me! 
    While he is away, how I grieve!”

  To the top of that barren hill I climb,
    And towards my mother I gaze,
  Till with my mind’s eye her form I espy,
    And my mind’s ear hears how she says:—­
  “Alas for my child on service abroad! 
    He never in sleep shuts an eye. 
  May he careful be, and come back to me! 
    In the wild may his body not lie!”

  Up the lofty ridge I, toiling, ascend,
    And towards my brother I gaze,
  Till with my mind’s eye his form I espy,
    And my mind’s ear hears how he says:—­
  “Alas! my young brother, serving abroad,
    All day with his comrades must roam. 
  May he careful be, and come back to me,
    And die not away from his home.”