Merrily, merrily rings the joyous shout of harvest-home:
Merrily, merrily springs the homeward bark through dashing foam.
Gayly the villagers leap, as red and ripe the vintage flows:
Lightly and brightly they sweep, the glancing swords, as the conflict glows.

Bursts, in its fulness, the heart, in laugh and shout, in festive song;
So when the labor is done,—so when toil strives along.
Hope cheers the combatant on; in pride and joy the victor sings:
Crows, 'mid the fight, the cock,—conqueror then claps his wings.
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