The chilly river flows louringly in the gloom;
The pale white mists are in their meandering roam.
The whirlwind brings down the stones from the vacant hill;
The moon sneaks to my storeyed house on the door sill.
Beating the clapper the poor watchman plods along;
Where is your village? and how thin is your cloth gown.
In the crisis-ridden time for many things I care,
Yet those banditti are still running wild here and there!