The swallow comes! She comes, she brings Glad days and hours upon her wings. See on her back Her plumes are black, But all below As white as snow. Then from your well-stored house with haste, Bring sweet cakes of dainty taste, Bring a flagon full of wine, Wheaten meal bring, white and fine; And a platter load with cheese, Eggs and porridge add--for these Will the swallow not decline. Now shall we go, or gifts receive! Give, or ne'er your house we leave, Till we the door or lintel break, Or your little wife we take; She so light, small toil will make. But whate'er ye bring us forth, Let the gift be one of worth. Ope, ope your door, to greet the swallow then, For we are only boys, not bearded men. In AEgina the children's prattle runs: "March is come, sing, ye hills and ye flowers and little birds! Say, say, little swallow, where hast thou passed? where hast thou halted?" And in Corfu: "Little swallow, my joyous one, joyous my swallow; thou that comest from the desert, what good things bringest thou? Health, joy, and red eggs." Yet another version of the swallow song deals in scant compliments to the month of March, which was welcomed so gladly at its first coming: From the Black Sea the swallow comes, She o'er the waves has sped, And she has built herself a nest And resting there she said: "Thou February cold and wet, And snowy March and drear, Soft April heralds its approach, And soon it will be here. The little birds begin to sing, Trees don their green array, Hens in the yard begin to cluck, And store of eggs to lay. The herds their winter shelter leave For mountain-side and top; The goats begin to sport and skip, And early buds to crop; Beasts, birds, and men all give themselves To joy and merry heart, And ice and snow and northern winds Are melted and depart. Foul February, snowy March, Fair April will not tarry. Hence, February! March, begone! Away the winter carry!" When they leave off singing, the children cry "Pritz! Pritz!" imitating the sound of the rapid flight of a bird. Longfellow translated a curious Stork-carol sung in spring-time by the Hungarian boys on the islands of the Danube: Stork! Stork! Poor Stork! Why is thy foot so bloody? A Turkish boy hath torn it, Hungarian boy will heal it, With fiddle, fife, and drum.