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Bore it two months, bore it three months,

And for four and five months bore it,

Bore it seven months, bore it eight months,

For the ninth month also bore it,

As old wives are wont to reckon,

And for half the tenth month likewise.

When the ninth month had passed over,

And the tenth month was beginning,

Then she writhed about in anguish,

And the greatest pain oppressed her,

But as yet she brought forth nothing,

And no brood as yet resulted.

From her lair at length she moved her,

In another place she laid her,

And the wench in childbed laid her,

Sport of winds, in hopes of children.

There betwixt two rocks she laid her,

In the clefts among five mountains,

But as yet she brought forth nothing,

And no brood as yet resulted.

And she sought a place for breeding,

Sought a place for bearing suited,

In the quaking swamps she sought it,

And among the waves she sought it,

But she found no place to suit her,

Where she could relieve her burden.

Then she fain would bring forth children,

And relieve her body’s burden

In the foam of furious cataract,

’Neath where whirl the furious waters,

Where three waterfalls are falling,

Under nine of precipices,

But as yet she brought forth nothing,

Nor the foul one eased her burden.

Then began to weep, the foul one,

And to howl, the wicked monster.

Whither now to go she knew not,

And in what direction wander,

Where she might relieve her burden,

Where to go to cast her offspring.