In plain words
Yaśōdā calls: "He swallows the butter kept in a sturdy pot up in the woven sling and quickly lies down feigning sleep; the Master, Lord of the immortals [the nityasūris], the herdsmen's own Kaṇṇaṉ: come and comb his hair, crow! Comb the hair of the one coloured like the dark rain-cloud, crow!"