‘Tis June—and still on Altai there lies the bitter snow.
Amid the chill of winter no happy flowers grow.
Although the wailing flute may sing “The Willow of the Spring,”
The co our of the vernal leaves this place can never know.
The kettledrum at daylight calls forth to war's array.
In midnight sleep our saddles we dare not put away.
This cursed tyrant Lou-lan who us to death would bring,
With this good blade within my belt how gladly would I slay!