When the pitcher is exhausted, It is the shame of the jar. Than to live an orphan, It would be better to have been long dead. Fatherless, who is there to rely on? Motherless, who is there to depend on? When I go abroad, I carry my grief with me; When I come home, I have no one to go to.
O my father, who begat me! O my mother, who nourished me! Ye indulged me, ye fed me, Ye held me up, ye supported me, Ye looked after me, ye never left me, Out and in ye bore me in your arms. If I would return your kindness, It is like great Heaven, illimitable,