Meaning “It Was of May” in Napuletano – Both the lyrics were written by Salvatore Di Giacomo and the music composed by Mario Costa in 1885. My favorite recording of it was by Roberto Murolo some time in the 1950s:
With the fact that the Coronavirus may keep us stuck isolated until May, it seems far too appropriate.
Era De Maggio
Era de maggio e te cadeano ‘nzino a schiocche a schiocche li ccerase rosse, fresca era ll’aria e tutto lu ciardino addurava de rrose a ciente passe.
Era de maggio; io, no, nun mme ne scordo, na canzona cantàvemo a ddoje vvoce; cchiù tiempo passa e cchiù mme n’allicordo, fresca era ll’aria e la canzona doce.
E diceva: «Core, core! core mio, luntano vaje; tu me lasse e io conto ll’ore, chi sà quanno turnarraje!»
Rispunneva io: «Turnarraggio
quanno tornano li rrose,
si stu sciore torna a maggio,
pure a maggio io stonco ccà».
E sò turnato, e mò, comm’a na vota, cantammo ‘nzieme la canzona antica; passa lu tiempo e lu munno s’avota, ma ammore vero, no, nun vota vico.
De te, bellezza mia, mm’annammuraje, si t’allicuorde, ‘nnanze a la funtana: ll’acqua llà dinto nun se secca maje, ferita d’ammore nun se sana.
Nun se sana; ca sanata si se fosse, gioia mia, ‘mmiezo a st’aria ‘mbarzamata a guardarte io nun starria!
E te dico: «Core, core! core mio, turnato io sò, torna a maggio e torna ammore, fà de me chello che vuò!».
It Was of May
my English translation
It was of May, and they were falling into your lap bunches and bunches of red cherries, Fresh was the air and all of the garden was scented with rose, for a hundred paces.
It was of May; I, no, I don’t forget a song sung with two voices; more time passes and more I remember fresh was the air and the sweet song.
And she said: “Love, love! my love, you’re going far away; you’re leaving me and I count the hours, who knows when you shall return!”
I responded: “I will return when the roses return, if this bloom returns in May, then in May I will be here.”
And I returned, and now, like that time, we sing together the old song; time passes and the world turns, but true love, no, that doesn’t change course.
Of you, my beauty, I fell in love, if you remember, in front of the fountain: The water there inside never dries, and a wound of love never heals.
It never heals; that healed if it could be, my joy, amidst this perfumed air I would not be looking at you!
And I say to you: “Love, love! my love, returned I have, May returns and love returns, do with me what you wish!”