⁠From the fair Sardinian shore,
⁠I your markets come to store;
⁠Muse not though so far I dwell,
⁠And my wares come here to sell:
⁠'Tis from the fear of hunger and cold.
Then come to my pack while I cry,
⁠What d'ye lack, what d'ye buy?
⁠For here it is to be sold.

⁠Knives and scissors—thus I cry;
⁠Thread and tape—come, ladies, buy;
⁠Pins and needles—here you see
⁠All of finest quality.
Things for the young, and things for the old.
⁠Then come to my pack, &c.

⁠Ladies! ah, you not'ing buy
⁠From the poor Italian boy;
⁠Yet I left my own dear home,
⁠And to you, kind friends, am come.
Let me not die, then, of hunger and cold.