| 英譯： |
Deep the mater of the Black Pool, dark like ink;
They say a Holy Dragon lives there, whom man have never seen.
Beside the Pool they have built a shrine; the authorities have established an altar;
A dragon by itself remains a dragon, but man males it a god.
Calamity and disaster, Hood and draught, plagues and pestilences
By the village people were all regarded as the Sacred Dragon's doing
They all made offerings of pig and poured libations of wine
The morning prayers and evening gifts depended on a wizard's lips
When the dragon comes, ah! The wind stirs and sighs
Paper money thrown, ah! Silk umbrellas waved
When the dragon goes, ah! The wind also—still.
Incense-fire dies, ah! The cups and vessels are cold.
Meats lie staked on the rocks of the Pool's brink;
Wine sprinkles on the grass in front of the shrine.
I do not know, of all these offerings, how much the Dragon eats;
But the mice of the woods and the fores of the bills are continually drunk and sated,
Why are the foxes so lucky?
What have the pig done
That year by year they should be killed, merely to glut the foxes?
That in the name of the Sacred Dragon the foxes are eating his pigs,
Beneath the nine-fathom depths of His pool, does He know or not?
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