Thanks to you, friend; but you fill up too quick.
A Lad.
[To the Fiddler, as he flies past, holding a Girl by
the hand.]
To it now, Guttorm, and don’t spare the fiddle-strings!
The Girl.
Scrape till it echoes out over the meadows!
Other Girls.
[Standing in a ring round a lad who is dancing.]
That’s a rare fling!