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It was the one thing you would have expected to have the opposite effect, the thing indeed that had forced his confidence, the organ and the voice once more beneath our very windows: "Margarita de Parete, era a' sarta d' e' signore; se pugneva sempe e ddete pe penzare a Salvatore! "Mar ga ri, e perzo e Salvatore! Mar ga ri, Ma l'ommo e cacciatore! Mar ga ri, Nun ce aje corpa tu!
But, Ilaria, you knew well what gave colour to the faint and worn old words about Fior di spin giallo, or O Dea fatale, or "O Dio de' Dei! La piu bellina mi parete voi; O quanto sete cara agli occhi miei!" And so the days passed in your square corner palace, until the plague came down with the North wind, and you bowed your proud neck before it like a mountain pine.
He gave those well-known street-ballads which one hears everywhere in Italy, especially in Naples: "Addio mia bella Napoli," "Funiculi Funicula," "L'altro ieri a Piedigrotta," "Margherita di Parete era sarta delle signore," and also more serious songs, such as the languishing "Ogni sera di sotto all' mio balcone sento cantar una canzon d' amore."
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