Chorus
Oh, that we had wings to cleave the air, where the birds of Libya go in their ranks, [1480] leaving the winter rain, obedient to the piping of their veteran leader, who raises his exultant cry [1485] as he wings his way over unmoistened and crop-bearing plains of the earth. O you winged long-necked comrades of the racing clouds, go on beneath the Pleiades in their central station [1490] and Orion of the night; deliver the message, as you settle on Eurotas' banks, that Menelaos has sacked the city of Dardanos, and will come home.