| 題名： | 醉時歌 |
| 作者： | 杜甫 |
| 諸公衮衮登臺省，廣文先生官獨冷。甲第紛紛厭粱肉，廣文先生飯不足。先生有道出羲皇，先生有才過屈宋。德尊一代常轗軻，名垂萬古知何用。杜陵野客人更嗤，被褐短窄鬢如絲。日糴太倉五升米，時赴鄭老同襟期。得錢即相覓，沽酒不復疑。忘形到爾汝，痛飲真吾師。清夜沈沈動春酌，燈前細雨檐花落。但覺高歌有鬼神，焉知餓死填溝壑。相如逸才親滌器，子雲識字終投閣。先生早賦歸去來，石田茅屋荒蒼苔。儒術於我何有哉，孔丘盜跖俱塵埃。不須聞此意慘愴，生前相遇且銜杯。 | |
| 英譯： |
The dignitaries are promoted one by one, up and up. In his cold office
the honorable professor alone is forgotten. In the many mansions they
feast on choice meats; The honorable professor has not enough rice to
eat. He is a better man than exemplary saints; He writes better than the
revered masters. If the present generation cannot recognize you as the
best of men, What is the use of trying to leave a great name for later
ages?
The Rustic of Tu-ling is even more laughable-An old fellow with
scanty gray hair, with ill-fitting, shabby clothes. He goes daily to the
Imperial Granary to buy five sheng of rice, Then he comes frequently
to old Cheng for company. When there is money, one will find the
other;It matters not who buys the wine; wine they will get. All formali-
ties of polite address can be dropped, One admires the other for the
mastery of the drinking cup. We pour the spring brew late into the
quiet night; Rain drips from the eaves while the snuffs of the candles
drop. So long as we feel our lofty songs arouse the spirits, Why worry
about starvation and death in the gutters!
The literary genius Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju was a dishwasher, The learned
scholar Yang Hsiung tried suicide by jumping from a tower. It is better,
O Professor, to retire early-Even to an unproductive farm and a di-
lapidated hut covered with moss. After all, what is Confucianism to us?
Confucius and Bandit Che-are they not both dust? Let us not sadden
ourselves with this sort of talk; So long as we are alive and can meet,
let us drink the cup.
Many have climbed to the top of the hierarchy; You, my friend, are still out in the cold. In the great houses all are glutted with good food; You, my friend, cannot even have your fill of tice. Your philosophy is that of a pure heart and few desires; Your talent surpasses that of scholars in classical times. Held in high esteem for your virtue, you are yet a perpetual victim of misfortune. You are destined to leave an imperishable name, but to what avail? I, a rustic who does not belong here, cannot but be a laughing stock, With my mean attire and thinning hair. For rice I go to the imperial granary; five pints a day I get. For a heart-to-heart talk I go to you, my friend. Whenever I have money, I look you up And spend it on wine----that's certain. No standing on ceremony, both free and easy, Drinking to the dregs-truly my master you are. Drinking in the silent spring night, With a drizzle outside, barely making out in the lamplight the flowers falling from the eaves, We raise our voices in song, inspired by spirits of the upper and nether regions, Giving no thought to our fate-starvation, perhaps, with a ditch for a grave. |
| 日譯： | 暫無日譯內容 |