Classic Poem

As west behind Xian Mountain the setting sun would fall,
Put your hat on backwards, get lost beneath the flowers.
And Xiangyang's little urchins will clap their hands in time,
Block the street and jostle and sing " White Copper Greaves. "
If passersby should query what makes them laugh this way,
They're jeering Mister Mountain, drunk as a blob of clay.

O cormorant ladle. O parrot shell cup
In a hundred years six thousand and three
ten-thousands of days,
and in a day you must be sure three hundred cups to pour.
See the Han's waters far away, green as a mallard's head,
just like the grape
when the must is set to ferment for a second time.
If that river will transform to make us springtime wine,
Then the risings of yeast could terraces build
upon that hill of lees
A steed that's worth a thousand in gold
I'd swap for a serving girl,
To drunken sit on a saddle carved and sing " Plum Petals Fall. "
At the side of a cart I'd hang at a slant
a single bottle of wine,
With phoenix sheng and dragon pipes
to urge each other along
In the market place at Xianyang, sigh for a yellow dog?
Better by far, beneath the moon, to pour from a golden jar.
Oh, don't you see,
for His Lordship Yang from the days of the Jin,
that chunk of old memorial stone?
His tortoise head erodes away, the moss and lichens grow.
My tears cannot fall for him
My heart cannot mourn for him.
Who can worry what happens after the body is gone?
Gold ducks and silver mallards bury ashes dead and cold
The fresh wind and shining moon, no need for a coin to buy;
The jade mountain will fall on its own,
nobody pushes it down.

O Shuzhou ladle. O Ironman pot
Li Bo to share life and death with you.
King Xiang, the clouds and rain, where are they today?
The river waters eastward flow, at night the gibbons cry.