From 29cd838eab01ed7110f3ccb2e8c6a35c8a31dbcc Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Daniel Baumann Date: Thu, 11 Apr 2024 10:21:29 +0200 Subject: Adding upstream version 1:0.1.9998svn3589+dfsg. Signed-off-by: Daniel Baumann --- src/sed/testsuite/linecnt.inp | 55 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 55 insertions(+) create mode 100644 src/sed/testsuite/linecnt.inp (limited to 'src/sed/testsuite/linecnt.inp') diff --git a/src/sed/testsuite/linecnt.inp b/src/sed/testsuite/linecnt.inp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9eb6070 --- /dev/null +++ b/src/sed/testsuite/linecnt.inp @@ -0,0 +1,55 @@ +A dialogue on poverty + + On the night when the rain beats, + Driven by the wind, + On the night when the snowflakes mingle + With a sleety rain, + I feel so helplessly cold. + I nibble at a lump of salt, + Sip the hot, oft-diluted dregs of _sake_; + And coughing, snuffling, + And stroking my scanty beard, + I say in my pride, + "There's none worthy, save I!" + But I shiver still with cold. + I pull up my hempen bedclothes, + Wear what few sleeveless clothes I have, + But cold and bitter is the night! + As for those poorer than myself, + Their parents must be cold and hungry, + Their wives and children beg and cry. + Then, how do you struggle through life? + + Wide as they call the heaven and earth, + For me they have shrunk quite small; + Bright though they call the sun and moon, + They never shine for me. + Is it the same with all men, + Or for me alone? + By rare chance I was born a man + And no meaner than my fellows, + But, wearing unwadded sleeveless clothes + In tatters, like weeds waving in the sea, + Hanging from my shoulders, + And under the sunken roof, + Within the leaning walls, + Here I lie on straw + Spread on bare earth, + With my parents at my pillow, + And my wife and children at my feet, + All huddled in grief and tears. + No fire sends up smoke + At the cooking-place, + And in the cauldron + A spider spins its web. + With not a grain to cook, + We moan like the night thrush. + Then, "to cut," as the saying is, + "The ends of what is already too short," + The village headman comes, + With rod in hand, to our sleeping place, + Growling for his dues. + Must it be so hopeless -- + The way of this world? + + -- Yamanoue Okura -- cgit v1.2.3