There in the sun his nets the fisher dries;

Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing

Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.

Ah! Happy swain! He waits the accustomed hour,

When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;

Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,

And shares the feast his native fields supply:

Friendship and love, his cottage guests, receive him