‘Aw, what sweet music! Sing it again, my good man,’ says she.
And he sang it to her again, till she knew it by heart.
Early next morning, she went as fast as her feet could carry her to the Giant’s house. The road was long, and a bit lonesome under the trees, and to keep up her heart she sang to herself:
‘Snieu, queeyl, snieu; snieu, queeyl, snieu;
Dy chooilley vangan er y villey, snieu er my skyn.
S’lesh hene yn ollan, as lesh my hene y snaie,
Son shenn Mollyndroat cha vow eh dy braa.’
Spin, wheel, spin; spin, wheel, spin;
Every branch on the tree, spin overhead.
The wool is Himself’s, the thread is my own,