Tune: “Buddhist Dancers”
All men will say the Southern land is fair,
A wanderer is willing to spend his whole life there.
He’d like to see spring water bluer than the sky
And , listening to rain, in painted ship to lie.
The wine-shop waitress looks like the moon bright,
Like snow or frost congealed her arms are white.
Till he grows old, from South lands he won’t part,
To leave this land for home would break his heart.