And now I'd better sing a little song

"And now I'd better sing a little song: As they passed in our street, A man besought his wife, 'Why don't you look pleasant? You are my delight, Darling Mashenka.'

"But the woman was obstinate, And averted her little head; 'Oh, I don't want your caresses, Nor your pretty speeches; I'm not very well, And I've got a headache.'

"But under a birch tree The man taught his wife; 'Wait a bit, my darling, I'll beat that tune out of you. In my own way.'

"Then the woman was sorry, Bowed low as the waistband. 'Don't frighten yourself, dearest, And do not be troubled, I find myself better, My headache has gone.'"