But her back and her wings are as black as night.
Then bring forth your store,
Bring it out to the door,
A mass of figs, or a stoop of wine,
Cheese, or meal, or what you will,
Whate'er it be we'll not take it ill:
Even an egg will not come amiss,
For the swallow's not nice
When she wishes to dine.
Come, what shall we have? Say, what shall it be?