Tho’ happy to-day ye be,
Your happier times ye yet shall see.
We make our prayer to the gods.
The sun shall prosper the seasons’ yield
With fuller crops for the wains to bear,
And feed our flocks in fold and field
With wholesome water and sweetest air.
Plenty shall empty her golden horn,
And grace shall dwell on the brows of youth,
And love shall come as the joy of morn,