Robert W. Service, 'Fiddler'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Fiddler

Oh! I have built a house at last,
To fill with music night and say;
For I have laboured in the past
And had so small a time to play.
My house is of a whin-grey stone;
Its walls are bare for poor I be,
But with my fiddle all alone,
I'll have rare company.

My fiddle's old and so am I.
For it I've often longed in vain.
Bleak years and years I've layed it bye,
But now I'll take it up again.
For in four frail gut strings I know
All music sleeps for me to wake,
And here before the peat-fire glow
Fine melody I'll make.

I'll leave my fiddle by the bed,
And take it in the morning bright,
So all the dreaming in my head
Will weave into a web of light.
Or lone lament - I'm fearing so,
For I have waited far too long,
And all a life of want and woe
May well into my song.

But no! I'll make these wintry walls
like Spring, with dancing day and night;
And when the Great Conductor call,
My fiddle I'll be holding tight.
My last love! Worth its weight in gold . . .
Yet - on its strings my fingers lie
So warped and worn, so stiff and cold . . .
Too late! - I want to cry.

By Robert W. Service

Comments

[med_cat]

Sad :(