Son shenn—Moll-YN-DROAT cha vow eh dy braa.’
The wool is Himself’s, and the thread is my own,
For old—Moll-YN-DROAT will never get it.
Well the Giant, he was done, and he was in a red rage, and he cries:
‘Bad luck to you! You never would have found out my name unless you’re a mummig yn aishnee.’
‘Bad luck to yourself, my boy,’ says she, ‘for trying to steal a dacent woman’s wool.’
‘Go to the Devil, yourself and your fortune-telling,’ shouts he, jumping up and flinging the balls at her.
And away home with her, and her balls of thread. And if she didn’t spin her own wool for ever after, that’s nothing to do with you and me.