Just as soon as Mass is over,
Put our pious airs away;
And with luncheon in our baskets,
To the mountain! To the mountain!
To the mountain, for the day!

Hark, the bells of glory ringing
From the belfries of the Spring! —
Sun and sky! — oh, what a blessing
After gloomy days, they bring!

How the water o'er the mill-wheel
Rumbles furious and fast,
Bursting through a thousand echoes
Until — there — 'tis gone at last!

For the woods our hearts are hungry;
Every bird hears us reply;
Incense seems to sweep our bosoms —
To the mountain! To the mountain!
To the mountain, let us hie!

Every grotto holds a secret;
Every cleft its creed and rite;
On the slopes is scattered grandeur —
Hawthorn flowers and crags in sight!

On the peaks the wind is hymning, —
Heaven is nigh — the town, far down;
Ah, why should not human dwellings
All the free-world mountains crown? —

At the nightfall — with our baskets
Empty — to the town we haste;
All the mountain fills with shadows, —
Spirits of the dreaded waste! —