White River, mother river, why run dark beneath the hill? How could water keep its silver when the tears are falling still? In the cave beneath the mountain lies a serpent, bold and old, And the people by the water bar their doors against the cold.

What he seizes, he devours, be it cattle, child, or crone, And the Lord sits in his stronghold, thinking on it all alone. Every month the herds grow thinner, every month the graves grow more, And no hand can match the serpent, and no wall can bar the door.

Blades will break against his scales, and clubs will shatter on his skull. Lightning rolls off like the rain, and every arrow falls there dull. Seven moons he waxed and waned, and then the Lord looked up and said, "Send for the cobbler, he's cunning, let him use his crooked head"

Then the boy sewed up a sheep and filled it full of sulfur black, Stitched the fleece up good and tight and carried it upon his back. Left it at the cavern mouth and stepped away into the night. Out the dragon came, all hunger, and he swallowed it outright.

Fire woke inside his belly, yellow smoke began to rise, Down the slope he ran for water, thirst was burning in his eyes. Drank the river, drank it deeper, drank until his sides were wide, Then the serpent burst like a typhoon, and the dragon lay and died