We go up north climbing the Taihang Mountain;
Alas, it's hard to move up the lofty treks.
Twisting and turning are the meandering paths;
Our cartwheels breakdown on the steep crags.
The shuddering trees are bleak and chilly;
Groaning northern wind is wailing the ill fate.
Bears black and brown are crouching on our way;
Tigers and leopards are howling by the paths.
Few souls are seen in the river valley,
Whirling snow flying harsh on our faces.
Sighing and sighing am I, 
Alas, onerous is the long-distance campaign.
Why am I so much worried?
How I wish returning homebase east.
No bridge is found over the river deep;
Wandering we are to find the right path.
Having gone astray,
At dusk nowhere to be found to tigh over the night.
Marching far away day after day,
Hungry are our men as well as their horses.
Marching packs on back, my soldiers cut firewood,
And chisel ice to cook gruel. 
Recalling the melancholy poem 《Eastern Hill》,
The more mournful am I.