Again Following the Rhymes of Vice Minister Yi's Poem on the Young Girl Performers復次韻李侍郞所著女童詩

The old habit is still with me and the lingering excitement is not yet spent, and so I make this poem again. Yet it would not be fitting to soil His Highness the Duke with it a second time, and I cannot bring myself to throw it away either; so I merely send it to be shown to my lord who first chanted on this theme.

The rare dishes are all like melons served in winter, and in the lofty house, as guests are met, carved halberds stand ranged. Day by day a goodly gathering is held, breaking up only when dusk comes on, and often he draws in his close companions and sits the night out. The crimson-dyed robes breathe out the musk that has soaked into the mats, and the red gauze lanterns keep off the moths that come to the flame. When the feast is at its height there is no telling morning from evening, and when the mirth runs over, what harm if it outlasts the twelfth-month exorcism? Of those who fill the seats there is not one whose beauty could not topple a kingdom, and as the cup is pressed, how should the song that halts the clouds be wanting? Loveliest of all are the young girls gathered in threes, as though a lotus had been split and each calyx set apart. Were they made in the world of men, who could have copied this? If immortals have not come down, then from where indeed did they come? Called in, the secluded chamber is deep and hidden; carried out, the bright painted pavilion stands high. They blow the flute with their lips, a sound like jade being split; they strike the banghyang chimes (方響) with their hands, as though pounding the waves. Lightly they tie them on themselves — trinkets that fit their bodies; narrow — and who cut them? — shoes that fit their feet. Little plum trees, their calyxes just formed, bloom on the warm slope; fresh-sprung tender grass stands out on the spring bank. They have known the quality of music and revel from their birth, and overthrow even the singing girls ripened to the full. To see their willow waists, he has them dance slowly; to see their peach-blossom cheeks, he presses them to drink a little. Their skirts trail widths of silk, like banks of sunset cloud overturning; their jackets, their damask patterns creased, like water that has made a whirl. They still sleep always beside their mothers; what neighbor guest is there whom a shuttle must be flung at? Of a sudden they go up to the vermilion palace and climb to Changle Palace (長樂宮), and straight away reach the blue sky and tread the Daluo Heaven (大羅天). What is more, they read the king's mind and take it in at once; how much more, then, do their outward gestures go not the least astray. Chang'e (恒娥) must surely be ashamed that she fled in vain to the moon, and the Weaving Maid too must rightly be ashamed to cross the River of Heaven. On that day the Duke's face must surely have been glad, and through the night the king's countenance let its mildness down. How laughable — an old man living idle with his white hair, whose old habit is still with him, and who chants once more.