Isirnune anapota ta maddia,
Afi nà clapsune tio mane misere
Pu ichannune ta pedia!
Professor Comparetti has shaped them into looking more like Greek:
Ολαις, ὅλαις ῃ μάναι ἠκλαίουνε
᾿Ησρνουνε ἀνάποδα τὰ μαλλιά
῎Αφησε νὰ κλάψουνε ταῖς μάναις misere
Ποῦ ἠχἁνουνε τὰ παιδιἁ
In his "Tour through the Southern Provinces of the Kingdom of Naples," the Hon. R. Keppel Craven gave an account of a funeral at Corigliano. The deceased, a stout, swarthy man of about fifty, had been fond of field sports; he was, therefore, laid on his open bier in the dress of a hunter. When the procession passed the house of a friend of the dead man, it halted as a mark of respect, and the friend got up from his dinner and looked out for a few minutes, afterwards philosophically returning to the interrupted meal. The busy people in the street, carpenters, blacksmiths, cobblers, and fruitsellers, paused from their several occupations—all carried on, as usual, in the open air, when the dismal chant of the priests announced the approach of the funeral, resuming them with redoubled energy as soon as it had moved on. A group of weeping women led the widow, whose face was pale and motionless as a statue; her black tresses descended to her knees, and at regular intervals she pulled out two or three hairs—the women instantly taking hold of her hands and replacing them by her side, where they hung till the operation was next repeated.
The practice of plucking out the hair was so general in the last century that even at Naples the old women had hardly a hair left from out-living many relations. It was proper also to observe the day of burial as a fast day. Two unlucky women near Salerno lost their characters for ever because the dog of a visitor who had come to condole, sniffed out a dish of tripe which had been hastily thrust into a corner.