Ballad of the Beautiful and Brave

The Prince of Heng loved both war and beauty, So he taught his fair maidens archery and horsemanship. Rich songs and splendid dances brought no joy— Drawing up battle lines and wielding halberds was his delight. Before their eyes, no dust clouds rise; The general's pretty silhouette glows beneath red lanterns. When she shouts commands, her breath smells sweet; Frost spears and snow swords are too heavy for delicate arms. Clove-knotted sash and hibiscus cord— Not strung with bright pearls, but hung with precious blades. After battle, deep in night, courage fails; Rouge and powder stain the mermaid silk. Next year, roving bandits swept through Shandong, Swallowing tigers and leopards, swarming like bees. The prince led heaven's troops, eager to serve his country— One battle, then another, both unsuccessful. A reeking wind of blood—eyes can barely open; Loyalty and honor never compromised one's integrity. Beneath the walls of the Prince's city, the autumn wind blows cold; Iron steeds and cloud-carved banners share the famine. Mountain passes cut off the dream of splendor; The palace no longer echoes with pipes and strings. Of all the Prince's favorites, who proved worthy? The beautiful warrior—General Lin Siniang. She commanded Qin maidens and drove Zhao women; Splendid plum and rich peach took the field. The embroidered saddle bore tears of heavy spring sorrow; The iron armor was silent in the cool night air. Victory or defeat cannot be predetermined; They swore a life-and-death oath to repay their former king. The rebels' fury, irresistible and fierce— Willows snapped and flowers wrecked, blood congealed jade-green. Horses trampled rouge—bones and marrow fragrant; Souls clung to city walls, homeland far away. Riding at starlight speed, reports reached the capital— Who would single-handedly shore up the tottering state? The rear palace asked no questions of rise or fall; Faces lovely as flowers, lives fragile as thread. Tomorrow when victory is announced, The multitude, sunk in stupor, will still not know. Alas, since ancient times how many warrior women— Most lamentable: their service to the nation was never disgraced! Now alone I clasp the tattered scrolls and weep, Grasping my sword, wiping tears, sighing in deep sorrow!