In plain words
Kaṇṇaṉ, says Yaśōdā, you took your bewitching, soft-toned flute into the secluded grove and set it to your lips, and the girls of that cowherds' village, their soft hair curling, came and stood round you on every side in worship, while you stood there resplendent. My Lord, here I have no claim to any share of property at all, only the fault of having borne you. Mischief-maker, I know you now for what you are [the Lord, not my child]. I am afraid to give you my milk.