At dawn, I sing the Song of the Fierce Tiger; at dusk, I chant it.
Heartbreak is not from the waters of Longtou; tears fall not for the Yongmen lute.
Flags and banners clutter the roads of two rivers; war drums shake the mountains, threatening to topple them.
Men of Qin are half prisoners in Yan lands; Tartar horses instead crop Luoyang's grass.
One defeat, one loss of troops at the pass; cities surrender at dawn, rebel by dusk.
The giant turtle unslain, the sea waters churn; fish and dragons flee—how can there be peace?
Much like the time of Chu and Han, turmoil without end.
Morning passing Bolang Sands, evening entering Huaiyin market.
Zhang Liang unrecognized, Han Xin in poverty—the survival of Liu and Xiang hinged on these two men.
Briefly going to Xiapi to learn strategy, then seeking refuge with the washerwoman.
Wise men anxious and unsettled since ancient times; today also spurns those of lofty talent.
Having plans but not daring to offend the dragon's scales, I flee south to avoid the Tartar dust.
Precious books and jade swords hang in high lofts; golden saddles and fine horses are given to old friends.
Yesterday I was a guest in Xuancheng, pulling bells to socialize with high officials.
Sometimes playing Liubo to lift my heroic heart, circling the bed three times, shouting for a throw.
People of Chu praise Zhang Xu as extraordinary, his heart holding storms the world does not know.
Lords of the Three Wu regions all look favorably; heroes from all lands follow in pairs.
Xiao He and Cao Shen once clerks in Pei; clinging to the dragon and phoenix has its time.
Liyang tavern in third-month spring, willow catkins boundless, killing with sorrow.
Green-eyed Tartar lad plays a jade flute; Wu songs and white silk make dust fly from beams.
When men meet, let us be merry, slaughter an ox, beat drums, gather many guests.
I will go from here to fish in the Eastern Sea, and laughingly send my catch to those dear to me.