The very clouds foams atop White Cloud Mountain,
At its base the roar of battle quicken.
Withered trees and rotten stumps join in the fray.
A forest of rifles presses,
As the flying General descends from the skies.
In fifteen days we have marched seven hundred li
Cross misty Gan waters and green Fujian hills,
Rolling back the enemy as we would a mat.
A voice is heard wailing;
His "Bastion at every step" avail him nought!
