“The season is a month behind
in this land of northern breeze,
When first I hear the harsh cicada
shrieking through the trees.
I look, but cannot mark its form
amid the foliage fair,—
Naught but a flash of shadow
which goes flitting here and there.”
Here, instead of being carried away into some suggested train of thought, the reader is fairly entitled to ask “What then?”
The following is a somewhat more spirited production. It is a song written by Ch‘ien Lung, to be inserted and sung in a play entitled “Picking up Gold,” by a beggar who is fortunate enough to stumble across a large nugget:—
“A brimless cap of felt stuck on my head;
No coat,—a myriad-patchwork quilt instead;
In my hand a bamboo staff;
Hempen sandals on my feet;
As I slouch along the street,
‘Pity the poor beggar,’ to the passers-by I call,
Hoping to obtain broken food and dregs of wine.
Then when night’s dark shadows fall,
Oh merrily, Oh merrily I laugh,
Drinking myself to sleep, sheltered in some old shrine.
Black, black, the clouds close round on every side;
White, white, the gossamer flakes fly far and wide.
Ai-yah! is’t jade that sudden decks the eaves?
With silver tiles meseems the streets are laid.
Oh, in what glorious garb Nature’s arrayed,
Displaying fairy features on a lovely face!
But stay! the night is drawing on apace;
Nothing remains my homeward track to guide;
See how the feathered snow weighs down the palm-tree leaves!
I wag my head and clap my hands, ha! ha!
I clap my hands and wag my head, ha! ha!
There in the drift a lump half-sunken lies;
The beggar’s luck has turned up trumps at last!
O gold!—for thee dear relatives will part,
Dear friends forget their hours of friendship past,
Husband and wife tear at each other’s heart,
Father and son sever life’s closest ties;
For thee, the ignoble thief all rule and law defies.
What men of this world most adore is gold;
The devils deep in hell the dross adore;
Where gold is there the gods are in its wake.
Now shall I never more produce the snake;
Stand begging where the cross-roads meet no more;
Or shiver me to sleep in the rush hut, dank and cold;
Or lean against the rich or poor man’s door.
Away my yellow bowl, my earthen jar!
See, thus I rend my pouch and hurl my gourd afar!
An official hat and girdle I shall wear,
And this shrunk shank in boots with pipeclayed soles encase;
On fête and holiday how jovial I shall be,
Joining my friends in the tavern or the tea-shop o’er their tea;
Swagger, swagger, swagger, with such an air and grace.
Sometimes a sleek steed my ‘Excellence’ will bear;
Or in a sedan I shall ride at ease,
One servant with my hat-box close behind the chair,
While another on his shoulders carries my valise.”