Mad and thin-groined Sweeney, astray at the top of his tree, sings a satire to the long-armed pines he temporarily shelters among.

How the rain comes through your
Aromatic leaves, you firs, you evergreens,
To find poor woeful Sweeney here.
Have I not cause for wailing?

A hard bed, this! No downy pillows
No soft scent of lovemaking
Hangs around my boudoir.
Have I not suffered enough?

A palmer has taken shelter below the tree and responds testily to Mad Sweeney, without respect for his travails.

A harsh voiced bird has crouched here,
Mad Sweeney! For your sins you suffer,
Your more than imperial pride, your contumely.
Repent, madman, repent, humble yourself!

And with that Mad Sweeney bounds away, his lover, his fetch, trailing after, the white-faced Hag of the Mill, surrounded by flour-powder.