At the harvest fair at autumn's dawn, The rowdy crowd erupts in song. Barrels cracked and heels beat fast, But one man splutters and then he gasps. High o'er the fields where spirits fly, Saint Urban's drained his nectar dry. No prayer nor psalm can change his view: Is this the best this lot can do? He straightens up his golden crown. He grips his staff, his face a frown. Enough of watchin' from above— I'm comin' down with the wine I love! Sent from the heavens—oh, what a sight! Saint Urban's here to spark the night! Saint Urban lifts his grail up high, The sweet wine flows, the people cry: Was it a miracle or sweat? The holiest drop we've tasted yet! I am the light, the path, the tun! Now walk with me and we'll be one! Come brothers, drink an' stomp an' leap! No time for rest, no time for sleep! He calls a blessing, through an' through, With golden wine for me an' you. No soul is headed home today. On giant barrels we lurch and sway. By Urban's will, just as he'd planned, The feast ignites across the land. His time on earth has been and gone, He drains his cup at break of dawn. He slowly fades and waves goodbye, Urban et Orbi—the well's run dry! Barrels empty, plates stripped bare, But warmth an' spirit fill the air. From heaven's gate he looks below: Next year again, I'll steal the show! So raise your cups, let fervour soar! We'll feast like saints of days of yore. Let good wine flow and join the dance! This night itself our sacrament! Saint Urban, Patronus Potatorum, Ad vinum cantet populus!
