Pip Sulky and sleepy Don't know where it is. French Sailor Beat thy belly, then, and wag thy ears. I'm used to ice-floors. Well, well, ye sulkies, there's plenty more of us. Hoe corn when you may, I say.
All legs go to harvest soon.
I save my sweat. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what they are dancing over. They cease dancing, and gather in clusters. They'll shake their tassels soon. The mate there holds ye to it stiffly.