Came from those parts. She used to sing the song.
I do not understand it well myself,
For I was born in Genoa.--Ah! my mother!
[Weeps.]
Julian.
My mother was a German, my poor boy;
My father was Italian: I am like you.
[Giving him money.]
You sing of leaves and sunshine, flowers and bees,
Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street!
Boy.
My mother sings it in her grave; and I
Will sing it everywhere, until I die.