Above hills, through the vale, Across tree tops and among the woods, You sway like a lad drunk with ale, Bringing cold and chill frisking down the hill "O" winter cloud with the pines "ye" quadrille, Not so far from your home in the hill top, lies a small stad full of colourful beetels who are beautiful and kopp, green and brown, buzzing around a lonely baum, they dwindle they flicker with a zeal without fear, Come down "ye" cloud to the small thorp, for the beetles are here to stay, the mist that you bring will blow over the torp and the haze with the grass blades shall swiftly sway.
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