The Ho Ts‘aow Puh Hwang

Yellow now is all the grass ;
All the days in marching pass.
On the move is every man;
Hard work, far and near, they plan.

Black is every plant become ;
Every man is torn from home.
Kept on foot, our state is sad ;—
As if we no feelings had !

Not rhinoceroses we !
Tigers do we care to be?
Fields like these so desolate
Are to us a hateful fate.

Long-tailed foxes pleased may hide
’Mong the grass, where they abide.
We, in box-carts slowly borne,
On the great roads plod and mourn.