Goddess mother, a little child am I and he a great lumbering, aged man,
My youth is like a blossom and my husband is a shrivelled mummy.
Mother, mine are just sixteen years and he has seen his eighty.
Goddess mother, of a winter’s night there is many a taste one feels,
But doltish is old age, and my husband is deaf and dumb.
Goddess mother, sportive am I and would like to play and I make my eyes twinkle,
But, mother, he, he says, ‘I’ll beat you,’ and lifts his stick in his hand.
Old is my husband, mother, what good can come out of age?
Goddess mother, on the festival all the girls are gaily dressed and merry,
But my husband is tired and weak and ugly, and I bend my head in shame.