The pillagers the autumn brings down to loot the land.
From homes celestial gather our armies band by band.
The leaders split their tallies to make war's orders yare.
The warriors sink to slumber on coils of drifted sand.
The very Moon of Heaven is bended like a bow.
Upon our swords Mongolian frosts their silver tracery sow.
The time is long ere we at last within the Wall shall fare.
Ah! sigh not, little wife of mine, so mournfully and low.