I'll take you, oh sweetest of all,
To my palace's nuptial bed!
Of wood-chips is made every wall,
And straw is the roof over your head.

This cosiness will suit you well,
And there, you will be like a queen!
Our bed will be a nut-shell,
The sheets of spider-web sateen.

We'll eat ant-eggs, fried in butter,
There'll be plenty of worms to bake.
I'll also inherit from mother
Many a tasty little cake.

Here, fat and bacon do abound,
And I have thimble full of wine,
And a turnip grows on my ground:
Here, your life will be divine!

Some kind of courtship! With a sigh,
The bride said: " Oh God! oh God! "
She felt as if she could almost die,
And, at last, she climbed into the pot.