English Rendering
To our sorrow the rice ripens so late this year, And soon we will see the frosty autumn wind blow.
Before the frosty wind the rain pours far and near, The sickles rust and on the rake's teeth mold will grow.
Can we bear to see golden stalks flat in mud deep?
Though we weep our eyes dry, yet the rain never stops.
In a straw shelter by the fields one month we sleep, Once it clears, our cart comes back loaded with our crops.
Sweaty, we carry them on our shoulders chafed red To the market where at the price of chaff they' re sold.
To pay the tax we sell the ox and pull down the shed For fuel and next year's hunger can be foretold.
In cash instead of in kind the tax should be paid So that tribesmen be bought o' er on northwest frontier.
The peasants suffer more for wise reforms just made, They would rather be drowned than live in such a year.