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MASANIELLO.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

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,

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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.

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