One evening I found lodging in a village where
A press-gang stole by night to seize my aging host,
Who, hearing them, scaled the wall and hid nearby.
Furious, the bailiff bellowed at the gate
Until the woman of the house unbarred the door,
Stepped out, and offered up this pitiful reply:
Three boys I nursed and raised and, on the selfsame day,
Saw them sent off to the garrison at Yeh.
My oldest boy, he sent a letter by and by
To say the other two were lying in their graves
And he himself was living but a stolen life
O Mother dear, how short we live, how long we die!
And now theres not another male under my roof
Besides this man-child nursing at his mothers breast.
That you could find some use for her Ill not deny,
But as you see she hardly has a stitch to wear,
And theres the child to think ofso why not think on this?
Granted I am old and gray yet I am spry
Enough to keep up with the other conscripts, and
I know Ive strength to serve the men their morning meals.
With that the voices died, though now and then a cry
Or plaintive sob choked off the silence of the night.
At break of day, when I continued on my way,
No one was left but that old man to say goodbye.
Ballad Of The Press-Gang At Shihao Village
written byDu Fu
© Du Fu