The peasant celebrates with song and dance
The pleasure of the rich harvest,
And full of the liquor of Bacchus
They finish their merrymaking with a sleep.
All are made to leave off singing and dancing
By the air which now mild gives pleasure
And by the season which invites many
To enjoy a sweet sleep.
At dawn the hunters
With horns and guns and dogs leave their homes.
The beast flees; they follow its trace.
