Tune: “Green Tip of Willow Branch”
Tartarian steeds in blanket clad,
Tears shed from lantern’ neath the moon,
Spring has come to a town so sad.
The flutes playing a foreign tune
And foreign drum-beats in the street
Can never be called music sweet.
How can I bear to sit alone-by dim lamplight,
Thinking of Northern land now lost to sight
With palaces steeped in moonlight;
Of southern capital in days gone by;
Of My secluded life in mountains high;
Of grief of those who seawards fly!