Lyrics Traditionnel: C'e la luna mezzo mare - Roberto Alagna

Traditionnel: C'e la luna mezzo mare (original)

C’e la luna mezz’o mare
Mamma mia me maritari,
Figghia mia, a cu te dari
Mamma mia pensaci tu.
oh! mammà mi vogghio marità
oh! mammà mi vogghiu marità
oh! mammà mi vogghiu marità
figghia mia a ccu t’ha dari
mamma mia pensici tu
Si ci dugnu lu babberi
Iddu va, Iddu veni
'u rasolu manu teni.
Si ci pigghia la fantasia
Mi rasulia la figghia mia.
oh! mammà mi vogghio marità
oh! mammà mi vogghiu marità
oh! mammà mi vogghiu marità
figghia mia a ccu t’ha dari
mamma mia pensici tu
Si ci dugnu falignami
Iddu va, iddu veni
'u chianuzzu manu teni.
Si ci pigghia la fantasia
Mi chiannuzulia la figghia mia.
Si ci dugnu lu scapparu (shoemaker)
Iddu va, iddu veni
'u matteddu manu teni.
Si ci pigghia la fantasia
Mi matteddia la figghia mia.
oh! mammà mi vogghio marità
oh! mammà mi vogghiu marità
oh! mammà mi vogghiu marità
Si ci dugnu zuppunaro
Iddu va, iddu veni
'u zappuni manu teni.
Si ci pigghia la fantasia
Mi zappunia la figghia mia.
oh! mammà mi vogghio marità
oh! mammà mi vogghiu marità
oh! mammà mi vogghiu marità
figghia mia a ccu t’ha dari
mamma mia pensici tu

Traditionnel: C'e la luna mezzo mare (translation)

The moon, a silver chalice, brims in the sea’s dark basin
Mother, my fate is cast tonight for marriage,
Daughter of mine, to whom shall I entrust your dawn?
Mother, let your wisdom steer this trembling vessel.
Ah! Mother, the bridal longing sears in me—
Ah! Mother, my heart aches to be wedded—
Ah! Mother, I thirst for the bridal crown—
Daughter, say: to which hand shall you be given?
Mother, only you can judge this riddle.
If I choose the barber—
He drifts, he returns with the wind’s sly footfall—
A razor, gleaming like a crescent, waits in his hand.
If whimsy grips him—
He will skim the dew from my daughter’s skin.
Ah! Mother, the bridal longing sears in me—
Ah! Mother, my heart aches to be wedded—
Ah! Mother, I thirst for the bridal crown—
Daughter, say: to which hand shall you be given?
Mother, only you can judge this riddle.
If I choose the carpenter—
He drifts, he returns on the hush of sawdust—
His palm weighs the chisel’s cold song.
If fancy possesses him—
He will carve scrolls along my daughter’s laughter.
If I choose the shoemaker—
He drifts, he returns with his leather-scented shadow—
A hammer, small as a heartbeat, in his hand.
If fancy possesses him—
He will tap out new steps for my daughter’s feet.
Ah! Mother, the bridal longing sears in me—
Ah! Mother, my heart aches to be wedded—
Ah! Mother, I thirst for the bridal crown—
If I choose the tiller of earth—
He drifts, he returns, clay flecked on his brow—
A spade, moonlit and heavy, hangs by his side.
If fancy possesses him—
He will furrow my daughter’s sleep with dreams.
Ah! Mother, the bridal longing sears in me—
Ah! Mother, my heart aches to be wedded—
Ah! Mother, I thirst for the bridal crown—
Daughter, say: to which hand shall you be given?
Mother, only you can judge this riddle.