At night in the village the watchman called out:
    "Eleven!"
A tiny little elf was sleeping in the forest --
    Just at eleven o’clock! --
And he thinks that from out the valley
The nightingale must have called him by name,
Or that Silpelit might have called to him.
The elf rubs his eyes,
Steps out in front of his snail-shell house,
And is like a drunken man,
For his little sleep was not long enough;
And he hobbles about thus, tip tap
Through the hazelwood down into the valley,
Slips along closely beside the wall;
There sits the glow-worm, light upon light.
"What bright windows are those?
There must be a wedding celebration inside;
The little folk are sitting at the feast
And carousing about in the ballroom.
I shall just peep inside a bit!"
-- Faugh! he bumps his head against hard stone!
Well, elf, I guess you’ve had enough?
    Cuckoo! Cuckoo!