The Book of Poetry, tr. by James Legge, , at sacred-texts.com
2Hear, minister of war, the accusing word!
We are the taloned soldiers of our lord,
And near his person should have rest.
But you from court have sent us far away,
Where ceaselessly we toil from day to day,
By constant misery oppressed.
3Hear, minister of war, whose erring deed
Has paid our valor with a sorry meed,
When we should near the court reside.
Why have you sent us far to suffer grief,
And leave our mothers longing for relief,
With all their cooking labors tried?