| 英譯： |
The setting sun about to vanish west of the Hsien Hill,
Lost among the flowers, I wear a bat upside down.
The children of Hsiang-yang clasp their hands,
Blocking the streets and singing "A White Horseshoe."
The spectators ask what they are laughing at,
They laugh at Master Shan, who is as drunk as mud.
A cormorant-ladle!
A parrot-cup!
There are thirty-six thousand days to a hundred years,
And each day one must drain three hundred cups.
From afar, the mallard-green of the Han River
Resembles grapes about to ferment.
This river could be turned into spring brew,
The grains piled up would have been a tower of dregs.
I offer my thousand-gold steed for a sing-song girl,
Seated in my carved saddle, I laugh and sing a tune of "Falling Plums."
Beside my carriage I hang aslant a jug of wine,
Escorted by the music of phoenix-pipes and dragon-flutes.
Why mention the yellow hounds when one is about to die in Hsien-yang?
It's better to empty gold goblets in the moonlight.
Do you not see the stone tablet of Lord Yang in Tsin times,
Its carved turtle head falling off, overgrown with moss?
I cannot shed tears;
I cannot feel sad.
Pure breeze and bright moon cost not a single coin,
The jade mountain crumbles by itself, with no one pushing.
A Shu-chou-ladle!
A figurine-cup!
Li Po vows to live and die with you.
The clouds and rain of Prince Hsiang have left not a trace,
The river flows east and the gibbons cry at night.
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