The blood of youths from the good homes of ten prefectures is now
Mixed in the Ch'en-t'ao marshes with the mud of early winter. The sky
is clear, and there is no sound of battle on the wide fields, For the forty
thousand bolunteers perished on the same day. The Tatars are now re-
turning and are cleaning their arrows. They are singing their barbarous
songs and drinking in the market places. The people of the Capital still
turn their weeping faces to the north; Day and night they hope the Im-
perial armies will again come.