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
The farmer hammers
And tempers his spears
Marries off his sons
Hands out his daughters
In boots clogged with clay
In fancy mittens The seaAnd the wind it blows
And the king hears it
>From five miles away
>From six directions
>From seven back woods
>From eight heaths away.
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