| 英譯： |
Inanimate are tangerines in a great lot,
What's the use of them—they are no better than naught?
It is too bad that the trees fructify so small,
Like the birch leaf pear, tasting puckery and sour.
Cut open, there are harmful borers in them,
It is improper to pluck them down with the stem.
The pile to one's palate would not make an appeal,
Did one take them as herbs and only want the peel?
Rustling in the chill, soughing winds the half-dead leaves
Feel sore to leave and to their old branches they cleave.
When winter comes, they should be covered with snow,
And in addition, the whirlwinds violently blow.
I have heard that in the Imperial Hall Penglai,
There are tangerines from Hunan on a table high.
It is the off year, and the fruits yield small these days,
Thus discolouring the Emperor's dinner in a way.
Since here and there resounding now with the rebels' blares,
The Emperor reduces his meal to show his cares.
God favours you that you are infected in good time,
Still I'm afraid the tributaries will be crimed.
It reminds me of the couriers from South-Sea towns,
In sending the litchies, thousands miles they have run down.
Halfway in the dales a hundred horses lay dead,
To this story the old man always feel sad!
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