In plain words
Kaṇṇaṉ, says Yaśōdā, you swallowed the butter churned and gathered at all three times of day, and the curds with it; you tipped up the milk the cowherds had carried in on poles across their shoulders and drank it, vessel and all; and now, like babies who live on the breast and cry for it, you sob and sob and cry for my milk. My lord, I know you now for what you are [the Lord, not my child]. I am afraid to give you my milk.