The horses neigh to hear the north wind blow,
The rebels occupy the Northern Pass.
The Southern armour bright as lake-side snow,
When will our men be back from war? Alas!
Half of them are aboard, ready to part,
E’en yellow clouds look gloomy and turn pale.
Old mothers see their sons off, sad at heart,
Crawling amid wild grass, they weep and wail.
Around the flags turn steeds which parting grieves,
They chase each other, foaming at the mouth.
Beneath autumn moon the poplars shed their leaves
Early which cover mountains of the South.
I am a man living in time of peace,
Not used to fighting or exchanging blows.
But I am not afraid to fight without cease,
And sweep away our formidable foes.
Our concentrated efforts could break stone
And enemy however hard they are.
Our galleons swift like whales which might have flown
O’er waves which surge in the Bay of Falling Star.
This isn’t a tune for army-men to play:
On hearing it, their hair would soon turn gray!