To village pastime, and to village song:
But why do happy peasants meet no more?
The village song, the village dance is o'er:
Why is the tabor silent on the plain?
Why does the mountain-pipe refuse its strain?
Where is the lover fond, the trusting maid?
They shun each other, and desert the shade.
Is this Italia's sky, so calm, so fair?
Where are its joyous sons, its laughing daughters where?
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