Awake, sleepy hearts,
The god of love calls you.
On this first day of May,
The birds will make you marvel.
To lift yourself from dismay,
Unclog your ears.
And fa la la la la (etc…)
You will be moved to joy,
For the season is good.

You will hear, I advise you,
A sweet music
That the royal song thrush will sing (the blackbird, too)
In a pure voice.
Ti, ti, pi-ti (etc…)
To laugh and rejoice is my device,
Each with abandon.

Nightingale of the pretty woods,
Whose voice resounds,
So you don’t become bored,
Your throat jabbers away:
Frian, frian (etc…)
Flee, regrets, tears and worries,
For the season commands it.

Turn around, master cuckoo
Get out of our company.
Each of us gives you a ‘bye-bye’
For you are nothing but a traitor.
Cuckoo, cuckoo (etc…)
Treacherously in others’ nests,
You lay without being called.

Awake, sleepy hearts,
The god of love is calling you.