I am drunk, looking at my sword under the adjusted lamp,
It's a dream, bugles call and all my men are ready to fight.
They are sharing grilled beef on the land which is wide,
And the solemn battle hymns are being played by the harp.
All my soldiers are gathering on the battlefield of autumn,
Their horses are faster than wind gusts blowing through.
Their bows and arrows are louder than the bolt from the blue,
After helping the emperor to have his business done.
We will earn ourselves great reputation and fame.
Alas! Just a dream, but my grey hair is real, what a shame!