The crossbow's draw is seen in old histories; strong archers were ancient officers too.
How is a warrior's task now a scholar's delight?
Punished to a remote commandery, in peaceful times with idle governance.
In martial attire, I summon companions to dispel sorrow with this.
The Wu crossbow is famed for strength and speed; my servant draws it for me.
The proper target long abandoned, we paint a disc on paper.
The sun's halo forms many rings; hanging on the wall, how round it is!
Marking scores as drums beat urgently, hitting the center grants more wine.
Truly not a military affair, yet it draws a wall of spectators.
If only I had a hundred thousand bolts, to drive straight across the Sanggan River.
Shoot into the old chieftain's court, seize the Yan-zhi Mountain.
Not leaving a single Xiongnu, pressing on to the vast sea before return.
The north entirely submits, offering tribute to the Heavenly Khan.
We scholars long without martial prowess, seek office out of hunger and cold.
What we gain is mere pecks and pints, confined in the court's ranks.
Not like the halberd-wielding soldiers, with spirit ascending the Han altar.
Laughing, embracing jade-like courtesans; drunk, galloping on golden saddles.
A court official's lifetime salary, suffices for them but a few months.
Scholar-generals were valued in antiquity, planning troops like turning a pellet.
Who knew that wearing the scholar's cap leads to a life of toil and sorrow?
Just by chance, through child's play, I bitterly recall the hardships at the frontier.
Facing the wind, I feel a surge of passion; my white hair bristles against the Confucian cap.