Grey clouds drift from mist-soaked hills,

Draw dryads from woods pristine,

Their rustic song shakes window sills,

Sending dew to vineyards green,

In wind-swept dusk in hills of Gaul,

Ripen grapes, sweet fruit divine,

Gathering these, the farmers haul,

To fill our chalices with wine,

Sweet wine, shade of precious blood,

Your reign, none can destroy,

Gift from Bacchus, that sylvan god,

Fills weary hearts with joy.