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.
Already terrified and tired by the great noise Of the guns and the dogs, and wounded it tries Feebly to escape, but exhuasted dies.
