Bódi's cooked mincemeat

The grist millet cooked by Bódi fell, ; He was about to fall into the door. ; My master could not stand the corn, ; He kicked it into the Danube. ; ; The Danube carries it away quietly, ; Bódi watches it bitterly. ; What will be the dinner now, ; The good grist millet fell there. ; ; There is no better life than ours, ; With the water mill boys. ; Because we do not pay taxes, ; The ice is noisy, we can escape. ; ; The sky is bright with stars, ; The ice carries Mr. Corn. ; His mill sinks, cracks, turns into dust, ; He clings to his hair. ; ; From ice floe to ice floe, ; He jumps on the hook. ; His life is now precious, ; His dog howled on the shore.