| 英譯： |
MELTING our bow-glue, we fight northern nomads,
On autumn sands at dawn, the din of drums.
Bearded tribesmen violate our borders,
Arrogant as rainbows arched on heaven.
Warships bear soldiers over Pa river,
At Little Willow, our camp-gates open wide,
The general gallops round on his white horse,
His gallant men display their virile mettle.
Their arrows shoot down threatening comets,
Banners soar higher than the sun or moon.
Where mountains loom through bare-branched elms,
Horses are whinnying, loaded down with armour.
Starlight fades from the far-off sky,
The short grass hugs the level sand.
Wind howls around the cloud-swathed beacons,
Mud fouls the snows that fall upon Jade Gate.
Many a nomad khan he has beheaded,
And planted fire in many a traitor's belly.
The T'ai-ch'ang still enjoys his former honours,
Yet has been raised to the rank of Banquet Officer.
On his precious ring a unicorn starts up,
On arrow-jars of silver, baboons howl.
Out he rides, his horse dappled with peach-blossom,
Ornate silks beating against his saddle.
His arm weighed down with a dangling, gold seal,
He moistens his lips from a wine-jar of jade.
He dined on clear cheese and ant-froth wince,
Washed down the purple fat with brimming cups.
His horse caparisoned with tiger-skins,
His Fish-gut sword could cleave a rhino's hide.
His fleet-foot hounds come from the Western Jung,
His slant-eyed slaves, captives from Northern Ch'i.
Dogs guard his tent where evening incense fumes,
Slaves watch his falcons through the weary night.
Journeying to Yellow Dragon he parted from his mirror,
At Green Grave his thoughts turned to Sunny Terrace.
As Chou Ch'u slays the dragon at Long Bridge,
Hou T'iao plays mournful tunes upon her harp,
Hc took two phoenix-wings from Ch'ien-t'ang,
His wife presented him with simurgh-hairpins.
His lady plucked a branch from a jewelled tree,
A nomad boy played the tune called 'Falling Plum'.
This morning he departed, sword in hand.
Oh, when will he return, the dragon slain?
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