My horn is overflowing,
My fruits all red,
And not a wind is blowing,
But sweets have fed.
The vineyard slope is gushing
With purple wine,
And amber streams are rushing
From every vine.
Near hill to far blue mountain,
Low vale and plain,
Wild lake and rock-built fountain,
My song of joy repeat again.

Young girls beside their lovers
Now pluck the vine,—
Its yellow foliage covers
Love's softest twine.
With loaded baskets reeling,
They home return;
And when the dance is wheeling,
Black eyes—they burn.
Io, Io triumphe!
The pæans swell;
And now their nectar flowing,
That gush of joy, O, who can tell!
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