Thy voice with its music I ne’er can forget;
I’m far from the land of thy own sunny home,
Alone in this wide world with sorrow I roam;
In the halls of the gay or wherever it be,
Still Napolitaine, I’m dreaming of thee.
Napolitaine, art thou thinking of me?
Hath absence not banished my memory from thee?
Remember our meetings, their whispers to keep,
When bright eyes were calling all lovers to sleep?
And yet would I not have a shade on thy brow,