Zhou Bangyan (1056-1121): to the tune “Fragrance filling the hall”
Wind raises the oriol’s chicks, rain manures the plum sprouts, midday sun makes trees grow, clearing and rounding.
The ground is flat, the mountains near, wet clothes damping over the fire.
As man is quiet, the kites play happily. Outside the small bridge, new green in gurgling water.
Leaning upon a balustrade, amidst yellow gourds and withered bamboo, I ask myself if the ship will reach Jiujiang.
Year after year, like migrating swallows, like the floating desert, they come under my eaves.
But never think at outside of your self, if long or short, rever the ancient.
Emaciated and tired are the guests from the south, let them hear music, play flutes and lutes,
Make a banquet on the fields; first prepare their mats and pillows, and let us only sleep when we are drunk.