Turn to the left and thrice about.
At the crossroad, by our hill,
he thinks that he can build his house.
Spin a spell and kick him out.
The path we walked so many years
now is shuttered by his door,
where we passed freely long before

His hens wont lay,
his milks turned sour,
he doesn’t understand a thing.
The accursed fellow cut our tree.
It was the favoured of our king.

He won’t be sleeping well again.
No dignity, no saving grace.
He won’t live in liberty
until his final resting place.
His book and candle cannot save
a wretch as foolish as he is.
We’ll be dancing on his grave.