KU FĒNG, No. 6

The T’ai horse cannot think of Yüeh;

The birds of Yüeh have no love for Yen.

Feeling and character grow out of habit;

A people’s customs cannot be changed.

Once we marched from the Wild Goose Gate;

Now we are fighting in front of the Dragon Pen.

Startled sands blur the desert sun;

Flying snows bewilder the Tartar sky.

Lice swarm in our plumed caps and tiger coats;

Our spirits tremble like the flags we raise to the wind.

Hard fighting gets no reward or praise;

Steadfastness and truth cannot be rightly known.

Who was sorry for Li, the Swift of Wing,

When his white head vanished from the Three Fronts?

Li Kuang, died 125 B.C.

Manchurian, Mongolian and Turkestan frontiers.