Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BALLAD OF THE ARMY, by TU FU


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BALLAD OF THE ARMY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Chariots rumble and roar
Last Line: "with darkened sky, and drenching rain,—a melancholy sound!"
Alternate Author Name(s): Du Fu
Subject(s): Army - China; Soldiers; War


Chariots rumble and roar;
Horses whinny and neigh;
Each with bow and arrows belted on, the footmen march.
Grandsires, mothers, children, wives, press for a last farewell,
Raising such dust they do not see the Hsien Yang city bridge;
Pulling at clothes, hindering feet, they block the march with their cries;
The sound of their crying rises straight to the heights of the lowering sky
above.

One who was passing along the road questioned a soldier there;
His bitterness at marching showed in the way he made reply,—
"At fifteen I went north to serve upon the Amur frontier;
Forty found me stationed at the western border camp;
When I went I was the beadle, though I was just a boy;
Coming back, my hair was white,—and still I have to serve.
I saw the border-battlefield become a sea of blood,
And still our warlike Emperor's ambition knows no end.

"Sir, have you not heard
How in the days of Han Shantung's two hundred counties lost
Some thousands of their villages in ruins grown to thorns?
Though one's wife were strong enough to handle hoe and plow,
Seed produced but barren fields and no return in food.
Or take, again, the troops of Ch'in, they had a heavy load,
They were driven here and there just like chickens or curs."

I wished to interpose a question then,
But he kept on expressing his deep hate:
"For instance, in the winter now just past,
Before he finished the western gate repairs,
The magistrate must press us hard for cash—
But where could we get money for the tax?

It certainly is bad to raise a boy;
It's better far, I know, to have a girl.
If you have a girl, perchance, she may marry well near home;
If you have a boy, he is lost, cut off like weeds and grass.

"You, sir, have not seen the head of Kokonor,
Since olden times the bleaching bones have never had a care,
The younger ghosts there curse their lot, the old ones mourn and weep,
With darkened sky, and drenching rain,—a melancholy sound!"





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