With autumn's coming the frontier scenery's bleak.
Departing wild geese are ne'er to loiter at ease.
From all around come drones with bugles resounding.

Mid thousands of peaks, with haze the air pervading,
At sunset the lonely castle's gates are latching.
A cup of turbid wine, from home a myriad miles.
Return I can't—on Yanran our victory yet to inscribe.
A Tartar flute's bewailing, frost all o'er the place.
The night's already deep; yet none has gone to sleep
Your homesick soldiers with tears, your hair is turning grey!