Title: Songs of the Flying Dragons (Yongbi Eocheon-ga) Author: Kwon Je, Ahn Ji, and others (commissioned by King Sejong) Creation Date: 1445–1447 Location: Korea (Joseon dynasty)
Summary
The Songs of the Flying Dragons is a cycle of 125 cantos celebrating the founding of the Joseon dynasty by praising the heroic deeds of six ancestors of King Taejo (Yi Seong-gye), who established the dynasty in 1392. Each canto pairs a Chinese historical exemplar with a Korean ancestor, demonstrating that the Joseon founders were the equal of China's greatest rulers and generals. The poems recount military victories, acts of virtue, miraculous signs, and divine favour, building a cumulative case that the Joseon dynasty rules by heavenly mandate. The work is simultaneously a political legitimation document, a national epic, and — most significantly — one of the first major literary works written in the newly created Korean alphabet, Hangul.
Why This Book Matters
This is a deliberately unexpected choice, included not primarily for its literary merit (which is real but not towering) but for its extraordinary historical significance. The Songs of the Flying Dragons is among the earliest texts written in Hangul, the Korean alphabet devised under King Sejong and promulgated in 1443. The creation of Hangul — a phonetic writing system designed so that "a wise man can acquaint himself with them before the morning is over; a stupid man can learn them in the space of ten days" — was one of the most remarkable intellectual achievements in human history. This poem is a founding document of literary Korean in Hangul.
Historical Context
King Sejong the Great (r. 1418–1450) commissioned this work as part of his project to establish Hangul as a viable literary medium. The Korean elite had used Classical Chinese for all serious writing for centuries, and many scholars fiercely opposed the new alphabet as barbarous. By commissioning a prestigious literary work in Hangul that celebrated the dynasty's founders, Sejong was demonstrating that the new script was capable of high literary expression. The bilingual format (Hangul with Chinese annotations) represented a compromise with the Sinophile establishment.
Literary Significance
The poems employ a parallel structure — Chinese exemplar paired with Korean ancestor — that both honours the Chinese literary tradition and asserts Korean equality with it. This structural device is itself a political statement: Korea has its own heroes, its own mandate of heaven, its own literary voice. While the individual cantos vary in quality, the cumulative effect is impressive. The work's greater significance is as a literary-historical artefact: it marks the moment when elite written literature in Korea began to claim full authority in the vernacular script rather than only in borrowed Chinese.
Research Notes
James Hoyt's translation is scholarly and thorough, though not widely available. Peter Lee's anthology "Sourcebook of Korean Civilisation" includes selected cantos with excellent commentary. This is a surprising inclusion that will be unfamiliar to most Western readers, but it is essential for representing the birth of Korean-language literature — a moment as significant as the emergence of vernacular literatures in medieval Europe. It pairs well with later Korean fiction to show the full arc of a literature that nearly did not exist.
The Reading
Proem: The Six Dragons
Six dragons of the East have risen into flight.
Their every deed was the gift of Heaven; their every sign matches the sage-kings of old.
Hear, then, the song of the ancestors of our reigning house — Mokjo, Ikjo, Dojo, Hwanjo, and the father who completed them, Taejo Yi Seonggye, who in the year of the water-monkey received the throne of Joseon. Hear how Heaven, which had once shone upon the Zhou in the west, and upon the Han, and upon the Tang, and upon the Song, turned its bright face eastward, to a small house on the northern frontier, and set into it the seed of a dynasty.
A tree with deep roots does not tremble in the wind, though the wind blow strong; its blossoms are bright, its fruit abundant.
A spring of pure water does not run dry, though the drought lie long upon the land; it gathers into a stream, it gathers into a river, it goes at last to the sea.
So Heaven prepared, generation upon generation, the house of Yi.
The First Ancestor: Mokjo of the North
Long before the throne was given, there was a man called Mokjo who left the southern country of his fathers and turned his face to the northeast. He went out from what he had known, and he travelled through hard country, and at last he came to a place beyond the old border, where the rivers run cold and the winters are long, and there he set down the roots of his house.
So also did the founder of the Zhou go out from his own land, and cross into Qishan, and gather the people to him, and from that going-out the Mandate of Heaven descended upon his line.
The two journeys are one journey. The two goings-out are one going-out. The man who leaves what is safe in obedience to a sign in the sky is the same man, whether his speech be the speech of the Middle Kingdom or the speech of our own country. Heaven knows him by his step.
In Mokjo's new country the frontier peoples came to him for protection, and the wild riders of the north came to him for counsel, and his name was honoured in three tongues. The Yuan, who then held the upper hand in that country, did not crush him but gave him office, for they too could read the favour of Heaven upon a man. The house was small, and its lands were rough, and its retainers were few; yet within it was the seed of all that was to come. So began the building of the house.
The Second Ancestor: Ikjo, Tamer of Raiders
Mokjo's son was Ikjo, and to Ikjo Heaven gave the bow and the bridle.
When the raiders came down from beyond the mountains — men with horses and short blades, who burned the villages and drove off the cattle and carried away the daughters of farmers — it was Ikjo who rode out against them, and Ikjo whom the frontier warriors followed. The banners went up; the horns sounded; the dust rose along the river. In each clash, the raiders broke and the people were saved.
So also did the great generals of the Tang ride out against the Turkic horsemen on the western marches; so also did the generals of the Song stand upon the northern border in the time of their need. Their victories are written in the annals. Ikjo's victories Heaven wrote upon the frontier itself, in the safe houses of the people and the unburnt fields of the farmers.
He fought not for his own glory but for the safety of those who looked to him. This Heaven marked.
The Third Ancestor: Dojo, Bringer of Order
Ikjo's heir was Dojo, and through Dojo the land of the family was made larger and made firmer. He extended the boundaries of his rule, and he settled disputes among the frontier peoples, and he taught them the arts of cultivation and the patience of law.
The sage-kings of old took the wild country and made it a country of men; they taught the people to plough and to weave and to honour their parents and to bury their dead. So Dojo took the country of the north, where the peoples had lived without unified rule, and gave them order and gave them honour and gave them a name within the great pattern of governance.
The poets of Heaven sing not only of the man who wins the battle, but of the man who keeps the peace afterwards. War is one half of the Mandate. The other half is the quiet morning in which a farmer carries his rice to market without fear. Dojo gave the people such mornings.
The Fourth Ancestor: Hwanjo, Servant of Goryeo
Dojo's son was Hwanjo, and Hwanjo brought the family at last into the centre of the kingdom.
Until his day, the house of Yi had been a house of the northern frontier — distant from the court of Goryeo, distant from the great families of the capital, distant from the high offices of state. Hwanjo changed this. He entered the service of the Goryeo king, and he served with skill, and he learned the ways of the court, and he positioned his son among the great captains of the realm.
He did not seek the throne. He served his sovereign as a loyal subject must serve. Yet in his service Heaven was preparing the next step. The old kings of Yin served the kings of Xia until the Mandate departed from Xia; the kings of Zhou served the kings of Shang until the Mandate departed from Shang. Service is not the absence of greatness. Service is the door through which greatness enters.
To Hwanjo was born the son who would complete the work of his ancestors. To Hwanjo was born Yi Seonggye, who would be called Taejo.
The Dragon at Full Flight: Taejo
Now hear the song of the founder.
In the southern provinces the Japanese pirates — the waegu — had come up out of their swift ships and burned the coastal villages and carried off the rice of the people. Year after year they had come, and year after year the armies of Goryeo had failed to drive them back. The people wept upon the shore, and the smoke of their houses rose over the sea.
Then went forth Taejo Yi Seonggye, and Heaven went with him.
His arrows flew like rain. His arrows did not miss. Where one of his arrows was loosed, a pirate fell; where one fell, another turned to flee; where one fled, the rest scattered like autumn leaves before a wind. In a single afternoon he emptied a quiver and emptied a battlefield. The men of his army wept to see such shooting, and the pirates who survived carried the story back across the sea, and after that the very name of him was a wall upon the coast.
So also did the heroes of antiquity shoot. So also did the great archers of the Middle Kingdom strike down nine suns from the sky. The bow of Taejo and the bow of the ancient master are the same bow. Heaven guides the hand of the man it has chosen.
Yet hear: he did not love the killing. He wept for the dead of both sides. When the battle was over he walked among the bodies and gave commands for their burial. The bird of prey is the instrument of Heaven, but the heart within him was the heart of a sage. This must be remembered.
Wihwa Island: The Turning of the Banners
In the year of the earth-dragon — the year the Western reckoning calls 1388 — the king of Goryeo gave Taejo a command that was not a command of Heaven.
The king ordered him to lead his army across the great river and to make war upon the Ming, the new and rising dynasty of the Middle Kingdom. To strike at the Ming was to strike at the very weight and balance of the world. Their armies were vast; their lands were many; their cause was unblemished. To send the soldiers of Goryeo against them was to send them to certain death.
Taejo marched his men to the island of Wihwa in the river, and there he halted.
He looked at the river before him and the army behind him. He looked at the rains that had swollen the waters. He looked at the faces of his men, who had marched far and who would not march home. He thought upon the kings of antiquity, who had refused unjust wars and had been honoured for the refusal. He thought upon the kings of antiquity who had obeyed foolish kings and had perished for the obedience.
A lesser man would have crossed the river and led his men to slaughter, that he might not be accused of disobedience. A baser man would have crossed and turned coward in the field and saved himself alone. Taejo did neither.
Then he turned the banners.
He turned the army around and marched back upon the capital of Goryeo. He did not desire the throne. The throne was placed upon him by the consequence of his obedience to Heaven, which was a higher obedience than his obedience to a failed king. The Goryeo dynasty, which had ruled the peninsula for near five centuries, had spent the last measure of its virtue. The Mandate had departed from it. The Mandate sought a new house, and the new house was the house of Yi, and the head of the house of Yi was Taejo.
In the year of the water-monkey, which the Western reckoning calls 1392, he took the throne. The dragon ascended.
Heaven's Signs Across the Generations
Hear how Heaven gave its signs.
To one ancestor came a dream of a dragon coiled about the rooftree of his house. To another came a strange light, seen by his neighbours, that hung above the field where his son was being born. To another came a wise old man at a river ford who looked once upon his face and bowed low and would not say why. To another came the cry of a bird in a tree that no man had ever heard before that day or after.
So also did Heaven give its signs to the founders of the Zhou, when the red bird flew over the city. So also did Heaven give its signs to the founders of the Han, when the great snake was cut upon the road. So also did Heaven give its signs to the founders of the Tang and the Song, that the records of the historians have preserved for the instruction of later kings.
The signs are not for the comfort of the chosen. The signs are for the testimony of those who come after. Let no one say, when the dynasty has been five generations in the throne, that its rise was a thing of chance. Heaven was working. Heaven left its marks. The marks are written into this song.
A Warning to the Sons
But hear this also.
The Mandate is not given for ever. The Mandate is given to virtue, and withdrawn from vice. The Goryeo received it; the Goryeo squandered it; the Goryeo lost it. So with the Xia, so with the Shang, so with the houses of the Middle Kingdom whose names are now only the names of fallen cities.
To the sons of the Joseon throne, and to the sons of their sons, and to all who shall sit hereafter upon the seat that Taejo took from the hands of Heaven, this song addresses itself:
Remember the journey of Mokjo, who left his country in obedience.
Remember the bow of Ikjo, who fought for the safety of others.
Remember the order of Dojo, who built the morning peace of farmers.
Remember the service of Hwanjo, who opened the door to greatness through faithfulness.
Remember the turning of Taejo, who would not march his men to a death without cause.
Remember the tree with deep roots, which does not tremble though the wind blow strong, whose flowers are bright, whose fruit is full.
Remember the spring of pure water, which does not run dry though drought lie long upon the land, which gathers into a stream, which gathers into a river, which goes at last to the sea.
A dynasty rooted in such virtue will endure. A dynasty built upon shallow ground will fall, and the chronicler of a later age will write its name among the houses that did not heed.
The Voice in Which It Is Sung
This song is set down in two scripts, that none may say it has not been honoured according to the highest standards of writing and none may say it has been kept from the people of our own country.
Upon one side of the page stand the characters of the Middle Kingdom, in which our forefathers conducted all serious writing for many centuries, and in which the histories of the Zhou and the Han and the Tang and the Song were composed. The parallel of Chinese exemplar with Korean ancestor is recorded there as the scholars of antiquity would have recorded it.
Upon the other side of the page stand the letters newly designed by our sovereign, who in the year of the water-pig — which the Western reckoning calls 1443 — declared: The sounds of our language differ from those of Chinese and are not communicable by Chinese characters. Therefore, among the ignorant people, there are many who, having something they wish to put into words, are unable to express their meaning. Being aware of this pitiful situation, I have newly designed twenty-eight letters.
The scholars of the court protested. The senior literatus Choe Malli stood before the throne and said: Since the time of antiquity, our country has devotedly followed the institutions of the Great Country, now if we separately make our own writing, this would be tantamount to discarding China. The sovereign overruled him. The letters were promulgated. And to demonstrate that the new letters were not the mean instrument of common speech alone, but were fit also for the high tasks of literature, this song was commissioned, and the scholars of the academy, foremost among them Kwon Je and Ahn Ji, were set to its composition, and they laboured from the year of the wood-ox until the year of the fire-rabbit, and in the year of the fire-rabbit it was completed.
A hundred and twenty-five cantos, set forth in parallel.
A song of the deep-rooted tree, in the language of the deep-rooted people. The Chinese precedent stands upon the right hand; the Korean continuation stands upon the left; and between them, in the empty space that the eye must cross from one column to the other, stands the argument of the whole work — that what was glorious in the Middle Kingdom has been glorious also in our country, that what Heaven gave to the ancient houses Heaven has given to ours, and that the speech of our people, set down at last in letters made for it, can carry the weight of such a claim.
The dragons fly upward. The roots strike downward. The water gathers, and goes to the sea.
This post is part of Civilisations, a 149-book chronological journey through world literature. See the full collection →
The primary scholarly resource is Peter H. Lee's Songs of Flying Dragons: A Critical Reading (Harvard University Press, 1975), which provides extensive analysis and translated passages. James Hoyt's direct translation (Royal Asiatic Society, Korea Branch, 1979) is the most complete English version of the poems themselves, though it has limited availability.
Peter H. Lee. The authoritative English-language scholarly study — essential for contextualising these poems.
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