High and compressed, the Southern trees
No shelter from the sun afford.
The girls free ramble by the Han,
But will not hear enticing word.
Like the broad Han are they,
Through which one cannot dive;
And like the Keang's long stream,
Wherewith no raft can strive.

Many the fagots bound and piled;
The thorns I'd hew still more to make.
As brides, those girls their new homes seek;
Their colts to feed I'd undertake.
Like the broad Han are they,
Through which one cannot dive;
And like the Keang's long stream,
Wherewith no raft can strive.

Many the fagots bound and piled;
The Southern-wood I'd cut for more.
As brides, those girls their new homes seek;
Food for their colts I'd bring large store.
Like the broad Han are they,
Through which one cannot dive;
And like the Keang's long stream,
Wherewith no raft can strive.