Odours such as these revive me,
Far dispersing thoughts of pain;
On the mountain blooms the vineyard,
In the vale the golden grain.

Soon the threshing-floors will thunder,
Soon the whirring mills will go;
And when these at last are weary,
From the press the wine will flow.

Hostess good, with topers round thee,
Fain would I be briskly sped;
Come, with wine fill up the beaker —
On the table lies the bread.