The T’ai horse cannot think of Yüeh;
The birds of Yüeh have no love for Yen.
Feeling and character grow out of habit;
A people’s customs cannot be changed.
Once we marched from the Wild Goose Gate;
Now we are fighting in front of the Dragon Pen.
Startled sands blur the desert sun;
Flying snows bewilder the Tartar sky.
Lice swarm in our plumed caps and tiger coats;
Our spirits tremble like the flags we raise to the wind.
Hard fighting gets no reward or praise;
Steadfastness and truth cannot be rightly known.
Who was sorry for Li, the Swift of Wing,[16]
When his white head vanished from the Three Fronts?[17]
[16] Li Kuang, died 125 B.C.
[17] Manchurian, Mongolian and Turkestan frontiers.