On western hills in late spring, plants grow thick; red and white blooms shine on cliffs and valleys.
At dawn a fierce tiger leaves its tracks; hunters with blades rush to chase it.
On gentle slopes, soft grass—its sinews strong; eyes like twin mirrors gleam through woods.
Foxes and hares are not enough to sate; it craves to feast on human flesh across the plains.
Hunters, brave, wish to capture it alive; undeterred by risk of wounded hands or feet.
I order eight or nine stout men to go bare-armed, daring not retreat.
Spears in hand, they leap ahead, undaunted by its claws and fangs.
The raging tiger fights, its strength now spent; white blades in chaos pierce its belly.
No pitfall set, no net or snare deployed—in moments, bound, it’s heard subdued.
Before half a day passes, victory news arrives; we clap, amazed at such divine speed.
A hundred shoulders bear it toward the town; streets and lanes jammed, all strain to see.
All say such things were never known before, not like a spring‑hill deer or elk.
Its striped hide, cherished, sent to the prefecture; gall and liver, prized, stored as treasure.
I hear no beast matches the tiger’s might; it wags its tail, grinds teeth, unleashes venom.
Once strength is drained, its power spent, its flesh and fat instead feed servants.
Thus know that fierceness cannot be relied on; only kindness, like the zouyu, merits record.
Tiger, O tiger, why did you emerge? Deep mountains, remote valleys could hide you—why not hide?
Was it for your pelt you met disaster?
Officers have strong men with long spears to catch you; you should hasten off, return no more.
The great river, though deep, can still be crossed; roam freely, but block not the traveler’s road.