Phoebe awakens in the morning so mild and so fair and sees us up hunting and stalking the deer.
It brings joy to her heart, just to see how quickly they run, from the sharp bite of the spear. 
Soon we will see her, in her shimmering veil, with us quickly soaked in the rain and the hail.
When bright Phoebe lies down when everyone should, we'll be up hewing and hacking at wood.

You say you're a man and you act like your tough, I think that it's time to tell of your bluff.

You can't shoot a bow or reap or mow.
You can't drive a plough or milk a cow. 
You don't know the east from the west.
I know you can't really fish, and I know you can't hunt.
Back in our day they'd have called your a runt.
You cannot speak with a silver tongue.
Not a tale well told or song well sung.

I am very ashamed to call you my son, you do not welcome the stranger.