The Black* Prince has his gang,
All the princes with wide foreheads,
And with thick, straight clubs,
And with long braids on their shoulders,
They go up to the top of the mountains,
Mountains, snow capped mountains,
And passing abroad
Soldiers call out mightily:
Alas, my soldier boys,
Proud dragon chicks,
You only see the plains
Dotted with jasmine,
You are contained by your enemies
And by flames that are flaring up.
Over there you have your brothers,
All the princes that are up in the trees.
Listen to their sobs,
The mourning and the harsh woeful sobs,
Take hold of your clubs,
Ready your bows,
Give fire in hatred,
And chase them out of the country,
And chase them out of the country,
And with your brothers escape from them
The soldiers, they heard that,
They were taking hold of their clubs
They were hurtling themselves into their enemies
And scattering them like chaff…
On the plains with jasmine.
When the sun stands in the afternoon
The good brothers were embracing each other
And their native land…they were ruling.