We call her Mandolin
We have to say it without really knowing why
We call her Mandolin
But she has never had one under her fingers
When she passes, Mandolin
All the men turn around in his footsteps
The alleys light up
And soon resound with cries of joy
We call him Mandolin
It's is all of Italy singing in its way
We call it Mandolin
The whole city only sings this tune:
La la la la
La la la la
La la la la la....
But recently, Mandolin
Becomes rare, we hardly see her again
Sadness, Mandolin
He's doing so badly that we'd like to know why
But let me tell you
It's an old story that we already know
When it's the Summer in Venice
So many beautiful foreigners go there
We call her Mandolin
Her heart is nothing more than a song that she repeats
To console Mandolin
Everyone sings to him in their own way when evening comes:
[sentence in Italian]
Other men will come, above all, don't cry
Canta canta Mandolina
You have to sing, we quickly forget you'll see
La la la la
La la la la...

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