The bright moon is above the Peak of Heaven
In the far cloud-sea of Tartary.

The wind sweeps on for ten thousand miles
And blows over the Pass of the Jewel Gate.

The imperial army marches down the Po-tung road
While the barbarian foe pries the Bay of Chin-hai.

The warriors watch the skies of the borderland,
And many faces are sad with thoughts of home.

Never yet from the battlefield
A man was seen returning — alas!

To-night at the high house, where she is waiting,
There is sighing and moaning without ceasing.