The fisherman said: 'Your green hills are truly no match for my clear waters. I have besides a lyric to the tune Immortal of the Skies:'

真個 is a colloquial 'truly, really,' the spoken register showing through the literary one. 《天仙子》 (Tiānxiānzǐ) is a 詞牌 named for a sky-immortal, and in tune-titles the 子 keeps its full reading zǐ, as it does in 《更漏子》 and 《采桑子》. 一首 is 'one piece.'

A single leaf of a boat lodges wherever it will; amid ten thousand folds of misty wave I know no fear.

一葉小舟, 'a one-leaf skiff,' is the oldest image there is for a tiny boat on huge water. 隨所寓 is to settle wherever chance sets you down, and 萬疊 is 'ten-thousand-layered.'

Dropping the hook, casting the net, I take the fresh-scaled catch; no rich sauces, yet all the more savory for that — my old wife and little ones gathered round in a circle of content.

The boast is that plain cooking tastes better. 沒醬膩 is 'no greasy sauce,' 偏有味 'and all the more flavor for it.' In 稚子 the 子 is the full zǐ, 'young children,' and 團圓 is the word for a family closed into a circle, the same word that gives the Mid-Autumn festival its meaning.

When the fish run thick I sell them off in the Chang'an market, trading them for fragrant unstrained wine to drink myself merry.

貨 is verbal once more, 'to sell.' 香醪 (xiāng láo) is fragrant unstrained wine, the cloudy stuff straight off the mash, and 吃個醉 is literally 'to eat oneself a drunk.' (長 in 長安 is cháng.)

My straw rain-cape for a quilt, I lie out on the autumn river, snoring in my sleep, free of every worry, with no hankering after the world's glory and rank.

簑衣 is the woven-grass rain-cape, and no other garment says 'reclusive angler' so economically; it is what the fisherman wears in a thousand paintings. Here he uses it as bedding, 當被, 'to serve as a quilt.' 不戀 is to feel no pull toward a thing. The 」 ends the lyric.

The woodcutter said: 'Your clear waters are still no match for my green hills. I too have a lyric to Immortal of the Skies:'

One line, two readings of the same character. In the trade-name 樵子, 'woodcutter,' the 子 is a bare suffix and goes unstressed as zi; in the tune-name 天仙子 it keeps its full zǐ. 還 is hái, 'still, even so' — the woodcutter conceding nothing.

A thatched cottage of a few rafters, raised at the foot of the hill; pine, bamboo, plum, and orchid — how lovely they truly are.

茆舍, a variant writing of 茅舍, is a thatched hut, and 數椽, 'a few rafters,' is the usual modest way of measuring a small house. 松竹梅蘭, pine and bamboo and plum and orchid, are not decoration but a character reference: these four plants stand for the upright recluse, and every reader would have taken the point.

Threading the woods and crossing the ridges to seek out dry firewood — no one takes it amiss; I sell it as I please, be it little or much, just as the world allows.

乾柴 is dry firewood, with 乾 read gān and not the qián of 乾坤, the heaven-trigram. 從我賣 is 'sold at my own discretion,' 憑世界 'depending on how things go,' and 沒人怪 the freelancer's chief perk: nobody minds.

I take the coin and buy wine to my heart's delight; an earthen bowl, a porcelain cup — how utterly at ease I am.

將 in 將錢, 'taking the money,' is jiāng, and 沽酒 is to buy wine. The 瓦缽磁甌, earthen bowl and porcelain cup, are the rough vessels of the poor and free; 殊 is 'exceedingly.'

Reeling drunk, I lie down in the pine's shade, without a care to snag me, beyond all gain and loss, heedless of the world's rise and fall.

酕醄 (máo táo) is blind drunk, thoroughly gone. Then the register lifts without warning: 掛礙, 'hindrance, snagging attachment,' is a Buddhist term, and a famous one, since it is the word the Heart Sutra uses for what the awakened mind is free of. A woodcutter sleeping it off under a pine has quoted scripture without meaning to. 了 here is the completive le, and 興 in 興與敗 is xīng, 'to rise, flourish.' The 」 closes his turn.