A son was born to a poor peasant. A foul old woman stepped inside The hut, with trembling bony fingers Clawing her tangled locks aside. And when the midwife wasn't looking, Across towards that babe she reached. And with her gnarled, misshapen fingers His cheek she very lightly touched. Mumbling weird words and slowly tapping Her crooked stick, she went away. Nobody knew what charm she'd woven, And so the years went duly by - The secret spell came to fulfilment: In life, much sorrow came to him But happiness, and joy, and true love Fled the dark sign upon the skin.