The enduring minister, a man for a thousand ages,
Hands down love of country, not love of self, through the family line.
Let sons and grandsons keep the elegant spirit alive,
Already promised to be peerless, boasting of extraordinary peers.
Among them, the commander of rites and music from Huai region,
His bearing directly emerges, chasing after fragrant dust.
Not to mention ten generations of family connections,
Especially being a close relative of the cloud-curtained pepper chamber.
Yangzhou, since ancient times, has guarded the peaceful plain,
Controlling the east, the seven marshes, south to Ou and Min.
Shoulders rub, hubs clash, connecting day and night,
Guests follow in throngs, facing the Celestial Ford at dawn.
Before the cups, peonies shine with gold and jade,
Below the hall, willows sleep on fragrant mats.
Tributes and taxes from high, middle, and low lands interweave,
The wind and moon of the Twenty-four Bridges are ever new.
A hundred years of human affairs have their changes,
In the dim vastness, fields and lowlands, mulberry and hemp in spring.
The reviving Son of Heaven pacifies the regions of Xia,
Selecting those of inherited virtue to share worries and toils.
Toiling like wild geese, settling affairs peacefully,
In ragged clothes, on thorny paths, spreading nets in Min.
Even now, the arrangements seem divinely inspired,
Towering and grand in momentum, yet how hesitant.
High city towers pierce the empty azure,
Painted bridges and moored boats float on swirling depths.
Yellow-haired children and white-haired elders cease their sighs,
Saying themselves they see again the simple, honest customs.
This rustic originally dwelt by Penglai's side,
Registered in Huai's fields, growing old among the paths.
Drifting, I thought I would not come again,
Coming again, I wish instead to plan a peaceful home.
Last night, crossing the Long River late I came,
My small boat wished to moor by the Long River's side.
Those seeing me off urged me just to travel safely,
Saying, 'Who here is named an unwelcome guest?'
The commander's orders all have their set times,
To act when ordered, to stop when forbidden, in a moment's span.
I beg you, lay down your quiver and entrust it to the great magistrate,
Lodging in the wilds, traveling the hills, truly have no doubt.
Walking on, I reach the ancient dam, mourning Duke Xie,
On the level embankment, I meet an old man with a laugh.
His words are mixed, speaking only of the magistrate,
But saying how happy they are with this year's harvest.
Wu maidens stamp and sing, children dance and leap,
No need for the Soil God's day to long hear the drums.
If we are not immediately to abandon the dusty world,
We shall see gold's price become like earth.
This rustic's verse comes from woods and springs,
Recording all seen, not wild tales.
I beg you, drive your long whip on the clouded road,
Huang Ba and Gong Sui were both worthies of their age.