There is no milk, cry my kids
Moving around, lifting the lids. 
Hurry-up, grab the wood pail,
To Răstoliţa go on the trail!

And when Gălăoaia we passed
Through the woods, at last, 
We picked a mushroom big and round
A bit broken, but well browned.

In a village, with apples red
Our rubber boots we fed.