Amorphis

What the thrush toils at
The partridge asks for
The hapless one takes
The troubled one steals
Puts upon a spade
Sets on a runner
Hides under a door
Shields with a bath-whisk
The farmer hammers
And tempers his spears
Marries off his sons
Hands out his daughters
In boots clogged with clay
In fancy mittens
The sea-swell rumbles
And the wind it blows
And the king hears it
>From five miles away
>From six directions
>From seven back woods
>From eight heaths away.