Once the thrush is awake,
On this still-damp heath
I will come to sit 
until evening;
 ... 

In turn, Anna, my companion,
Leads, beyond the crest of the hill,
Near the grove of elders,
Her flock of black goats;
So the mountain, where I wander,
Just like a high wall, separates us,
But her sweet voice, 						
Her voice calls me from the depths of the woods. 	

Oh! this plaintive and tender melody,
How sweet it is to hear in the distance,
Without even having
The happiness of seeing each other!
From the mountain to the valley
The voice called by the other voice
Seems like a sigh
Equally mixed of sorrow and of pleasure.

Ah, hold your breath,
Scatterbrained breeze, otherwise on the plain,
Among the wheat,
You may run, fly!
 ... 

Again! Again! Anna, my beauty!
Anna, it's Loïc who calls you!
Once more to hear the sound 
Of your song!
The song sung by your lips,
In order to amuse your goats,
Little Anna, 
You dance your gay “Ta-ra-la!"

 ... 

Farewell! against a savage wind
Through my fingers, my mouth
In this ravine
Calls in vain;
Already night comes on the heath;
Let’s go back to the village, greedy cow!
Oh, gui-lan-la!								
Farewell, my little Anna!