'This wild thrilling song, and this voice once again,
My dear, ’tis Orso who comes back to the plain!
Yes, Orso, who sees me as day follows day:
Descending the last slope by the side of the springs,
He leads lusty his herd, while his voice cheerful rings,
'Mid the tramp heavy of cattle athirst on their way.
'When he comes home at evening the fair peasant maid
Who winnows the grain, sitting calm in the shade,
Better to see him—for his like there is none—
On the steps at the door loves on tiptoe to stand,
And whispers he'll match any lord in the land,
With his gold hair imprisoning the rays of the sun.
'If he wished it, he might to the loveliest pretend,
For the girls leave their sickles, and the reaping suspend
When the mother commences his marvellous tale,—
What goblets he won at the jousts year by year,
'What rencontres he had by the wood, and how dear
He made nobles pay, who dared him to assail.
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