IN Milan's gardens, soft the light
Shone from your eyes so dark and mellow,
The trees with colored lamps were bright,
A band was playing Masaniello.
Happy we sat as in a dream,
I thought myself a lucky fellow;
Your sweet voice seemed a bubbling stream,
And still the band played Masaniello.
We parted, and on Western plains
'Mid bleating sheep and bullock's bellow,
I thought of thee, whene'er the strains
The fiddler played, of Masaniello.
At Milan now I sit alone,
The falling leaves are dry and yellow,
And muse o'er days for ever gone,
Yet still the band plays Masaniello.