What the thrush toils at
The partridge asks for
The hapless one takes
The troubled one steals
Puts upon a spade
Sets on a runner
Hides under a door
Shields with a bath-whisk
The farmer hammers
And tempers his spears
Marries off his sons
Hands out his daughters
In boots clogged with clay
In fancy mittens
The sea-swell rumbles
And the wind it blows
And the king hears it
From five miles away
From six directions
From seven backwoods
From eight heaths away
The wind still blows
The farmer hammers
And tempers his spears
Marries off his sons
Hands out his daughters
In boots clogged with clay
In fancy mittens
Song of the troubled one
