Fit una die de iberru mala e fritta,fit bentu, fit frocande a froca ladae Marïedda, totu tostorada,ghirabat chin sa broca dae Istiritta.
Buffàndesi sas ungras, poberita...fachiat a cada passu s'arressada,e dae sa fardetedda istratzuladanch'essiat un'anchichedda biaita.
Mentras andabat gai arressa arressa,istabat annotàndesi sa frocach'imbïancabat una murichessa,
cando trabucat e - a terra sa broca! -Mariedda pranghende tando pessatchi li catzan su frittu chin sa soca!
It was a winter day, bad and cold,It was windy, large snowflakes were fallingAnd Little Mary, all stiffened with cold,Was returning from Istiritta1with a pitcher.
Breathing on her nails, poor creature,At each step she made a pauseAnd from her crumpled skirtA bluish little leg jutted out.
While walking so, stop and go,She was gazing at the snowflakesWhich were whitening a mulberry bush
And behold, she stumbles and the pitcher falls to the ground!Then Little Mary, weeping, thinks thatThey’ll take off her cold with a rope!2