Classic Poem

I have an ox but its tail is missing;
everyone pokes fun at my tailless ox.
Born a wild calf, it was chewed by a wolf,
but I well understand why it escaped the wolf's jaws:
it's so wise you'd take it for an old pine spirit,
far plumper and bigger than those grazers under the fruit trees.
And though it lacks a tail, it has five virtues;
with your leave, I'll rap its horn and count them one by one.
(first virtue)
First, when it eats tender grass and turds come flopping down,
it has no tail to swish about and dirty up the shafts.
(second virtue)
Should it stray into a garden and rouse the owner's ire,
there's nothing he can tie a dead ox skull to.
(third virtue)
Again if it mingles with herds of cows in the broad meadow,
the herdboy can spot it far off without searching about.
(fourth virtue)
Black ox with dots of white hair on its back—
a wise man of old examined it and caught the thief.
But in your case, to seize the scoundrel, determine the thief,
what need to scrutinize and report on hair?
Even a short tail might omen long life for the culprit,
but with you he's certain to end up in chains.
(fifth virtue)
Other people's sons and daughters race about in carts,
off on long trips to mountain temples, short ones to market taverns,
sometimes not returning till dusk or even the following day,
wearying the ox, wearing down the wheels, worrying the owner.
But because my ox has no tail, no one wants to borrow it—
though others laugh in scorn, I have no cares.
Tailless, tailless, hark to what I say!
Never have I used you to plow paddy or field,
nor driven you east and west, fetching and hauling,
and the rare times you hauled a load, I charged no fee.
It's not that I can't bear to see you put to work;
poor, I've forgotten how to make a living at farming or trade.
Old now, I stick to my post, though the stipend's skimpy,
and number in my household no lackey or groom.
In grass-green spring I have no sleek horse to straddle,
in snow-white winter I've trouble patching together a proper cloak.
True, you're here to pull me, but is that such a comfort?
Tailless, tailless, do you know what I mean?
While we serve a wise sovereign, we live for loyalty, not wealth!
That's why I get up early, rest but little at night.
And if my worthless loyalty should win some paltry return,
tailless, I'll surely pay you for your years of hard work!

I have an ox but its tail is missing;
everyone pokes fun at my tailless ox.
Born a wild calf, it was chewed by a wolf,
but I well understand why it escaped the wolf's jaws;
it's so wise you'd take it for an old pine spirit,
far plumper and bigger than those grazers under the fruit trees.
And though it lacks a tail, it has five virtues;
with your leave, I'll rap its horn and count them one by one.
(first virtue)
First, when it eats tender grass and turds come flopping down,
it has no tail to swish about and dirty up the shafts.
(second virtue)
Should it stray into a garden and rouse the owner's ire,
there's nothing he can tie a dead ox skull to.
(third virtue)
Again if it mingles with herds of cows in the broad meadow,
the herdboy can spot it far off without searching about.
(fourth virtue)
Black ox with dots of white hair on its back—
a wise man of old examined it and caught the thief.
But in your case, to seize the scoundrel, determine the thief,
what need to scrutinize and report on hair?
Even a short tail might omen long life for the culprit,
but with you he's certain to end up in chains.
(fifth virtue)
Other people's sons and daughters race about in carts,
off on long trips to mountain temples, short ones to market taverns,
sometimes not returning till dusk or even the following day,
wearying the ox, wearing down the wheels, worrying the owner.
But because my ox has no tail, no one wants to borrow it—
though others laugh with scorn, I have no cares.
Tailless, tailless, hark to what I say!
Never have I used you to plow paddy or field,
nor driven you east and west, fetching and hauling,
and the rare times you hauled a load, I charged no fee.
It's not that I can't bear to see you put to work;
poor, I've forgotten how to make a living at farming or trade.
Old now, I stick to my post, though the stipend's skimpy,
and number in my household no lackey or groom.
In grass-green spring I have no sleep horse to straddle,
in snow-white winter I've trouble patching together a proper cloak.
True, you're here to pull me, but is that such a comfort?
Tailless, tailless, do you know what I mean?
In the age of the sages, they used loyalty, not wealth!
That's why I get up early, rest but little at night.
And if my worthless loyalty should win some paltry return,
I'll surely pay you for your years of hard work!