The stone fish lake is a miniature Tung-t'ing;
In summer the water is like to overflow and the Chün Hill (stands out) dark blue.
The hill is a goblet,
The water a pool (of wine);
We tipplers scattered on all sides
Sit on the rocky island.
A steady wind blows throughout the day
Ruffling the lake into ripples
But does not deter the men from bringing up the wine boats.
I grasp a long gourd calabash sitting on the islet of Pa.
On the hill we drink scattered in all quarters,
So we drive away melancholy.