Tune: “Broken Form of sand of Silk-washing Stream”
After passing the five-mile beach, the breeze stops blowing,
With sails unfurled, the boat seems light when we are rowing.
We use no scull and take our oars from water flowing,
But still the boat is going.
The water shimmers in the breeze before the eye;
As if to bid us welcome, the mountain comes nigh,
On a close look, it does not move but towers high:
The boat is going by.