Wei Daoan was a Confucian scholar,
Renowned for his skill with bow and sword.
At twenty, he roamed the Taihang Mountains,
At dusk, he heard cries of distress.
He rushed forward to inquire,
An old man with a splendid tassel.
Said, 'I am a former governor,
Lost my post, returning to the Western Capital.
By chance, I was captured by bandits,
Stripped of every last thread.
Wealth I do not begrudge,
But my two daughters are lovely.
In panic, we were driven forth,
Who knows if we live or die?
I'd rather perish here,
Than journey on at dawn.'
Hearing this stirred his noble heart,
His eyes blazed, his gall surged.
He hung his bow, asked their location,
Leapt nimbly over rugged peaks.
He found the bandits in a cold ravine's shade,
Arrayed, angrily disputing.
One arrow felled their chieftain,
The rest howled in terror.
He ordered them bound in turn,
With ropes crisscrossing and propping.
The daughters, long terrified,
Awaited execution under the blade.
He stepped back, did not hand them over directly,
Instructed them to follow their father.
He gathered their goods, shouldered the load,
Turned onto the road, hastened onward.
At night, he struck flint for fire,
The mountains and woods bright as day.
Father and daughters embraced again,
Tears and blood mingled and fell.
They kowtowed, wishing to return the goods,
Offer the daughters as kin by marriage.
Daoan left in his old clothes,
Valuing righteousness, he held profit light.
Teacher-student marriage is anciently condemned,
Uniting families is not done by force.
Henceforth he pursued Confucian arts,
For ten years he could display his talents.
With fervor, he served Governor Zhang of Xuzhou,
At the vermilion mansion, banners flew ahead.
He achieved his wish by joining his district,
Rode before the horse out of the royal city.
At the camp gate stood this extraordinary man,
Autumn wind rose on the Huai River.
When the lord passed away,
His followers fell into discord.
Upholding the orphan, he defied the king's command,
War drums echoed across the wilds.
The flood could not be dammed,
Rebellion could not be withstood.
He raised his head and drew the blade himself,
Considering righteousness, who cared for the body?
A martyr does not forget death,
His death lies in loyalty and steadfastness.
Alas, those who chase power,
Flourish and eagerly seek glory.
My song does not mourn death,
It mourns the temper of the times.