Edgefield Advertiser

The Italian Moon.

Your "honeymoon?" w'at ces eet? Eh?

Eet ees da "moon of love," you say?

Wal, mebbe so, Signore, but O!

You don't know, you don't know!

You could not know onteel you see

Da moon dat shine een Eetaly.

Here ces a moon, but eet ees cold:

Eetalian moon ees ball of gold!

So warm, so sof' you wonda why

Eet steeck togther een da sky;

You theenk eet gona malt an' run

Like lumpa butter een da sun.

So, too, eets—w'at you call?—eets "beam"

Dat streama down on you, dey seem

So theeck, so reecha lika cream.

An' you can fee! dem on your tongue

W'en you are seeng your lova song

An' warm an' sweet you feel dem slide

Right down your throat, onteel eenside

Your heart dey rest, an' eet ees hold

No longer blood, but justa gold!

You cannot know of love onteel

Sooch moonlight een your heart you feel.

W'at for you smile— Eet eesa true!

For so, w'en I am young like you,

Wan night weeth Rosa by da shore

Of Napoli I felt, Sigmore.

You say dees moon dat shine tonight

Ees gooda 'nough for you? All right.

I s'pose dat you are love your wife,

But O! Signore, you bat your life,

You eat her up eef you could be

Where shines da moon een Eetaly.