From Classic of Poetry

 

CCXLV. She Bore the Folk

 

She who first bore the folk--

Chiang it was, First Parent.

How was it she bore the folk? --

she knew the rite and sacrifice.

To rid her of sonelessness

she trod the god's toeprint

     and she was glad.

She was made great, on her luck settled,

the seed stirred, it was quick.

She gave birth, she gave suck,

and this was Lord Millet.

 

When he months had come to term,

her firstborn sprang up.

Not splitting, not rending,

working no hurt, no harm.

He showed his godhead glorious,

the high god was greatly soothed.

He took great joy in those rights

and easily she bore her son.

 

She set him in a narrow lane,

but sheep and cattle warded him.

She set him in the wooded plain,

he met with those that logged the plain.

She set him on the cold ice,

birds sheltered him with wings.

Then the birds left him

and Lord Millet wailed.

This was long and this was loud;

his voice was a mighty one.

 

And then he crept and crawled,

he stood upright, he stood straight.

He sought to feed his mouth,

and planted there great beans.

The great beans'leaves were fluttering,

the rows of grain were bristing.

Hemp and barley dense and dark,

the melons, plump and round.

 

Lord Millet in his farming

had a way to help thins grow:

He rid the land of thick grass,

he planted there a glorious growth.

It was in squares, it was leafy,

it was planted, it grew tall.

It came forth, it formed ears,

it was hard, it was good.

Itstassels bent, it was full,

he had his household there in Tai.

 

He passed us down these wondrous grains:

our black millets, of one and two kernels,

Millet whose leaves sprout red or white,

hefted on shoulders, loaded on backs,

he took it home and began this rite.

 

And how goes this rite we have? --

at times we hull, at times we scoop,

at times we winnow, at times we stomp,

we hear it slosh as we wash it,

we hear it puff as we steam it.

Then we reckon, then we consider,

take artemisia, offer fat.

We take a ram for the flaying,

then we roast it, then we sear it,

to rouse up the following year.

 

We heap the wooden trenchers full,

wooden trenchers, earthenware platters.

And as the scent first rises

the high god is peaceful and glad.

This great odor is good indeed,

for Lord Millet began the rite,

and hopefully free from failing or fault,

it has lasted until now.