Who'll buy him, sleeping in his mother's arms?
Who'll buy? Who'll buy?
How dare I cherish him who only harms?
That will not I.

Two wings, one snub nose, ten sharp-scratching nails.
Who'll buy? Who'll buy?
Sometimes he laughs, or if that naught avails,
Why then he'll cry.

A mule, a chatterbox, sharp-eyed and wild,
A very monster is this cruel child;
E'en in his mother's pain he finds his joy.
Come! Some out-going merchant buy the boy!
But now he pleads, he weeps,—cheer up, then. See!
I'll sell thee not, stay with Zenophile!