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Fiddler's Farewell
Fold now the song within the songster.
Small sturdy one,
Roistering down the centuries,
Drunk with the fiddlers' fingers,
(Never a dearth of these,
The living crowding where the dead have been),
Pure promiscuous dandled violin!
Small sturdy one,
Roistering down the centuries,
Drunk with the fiddlers' fingers,
(Never a dearth of these,
The living crowding where the dead have been),
Pure promiscuous dandled violin!
Cæsar of sound, my songs in passing, cry,
Morituri te salutamus!—and passing, die.
Morituri te salutamus!—and passing, die.
Fold now the song away.
Close the lid down
Upon the gradual dismay
Of disconcerted singing,
Unloose the fingers' clinging
That has so lost its cunning,
Turn from the faltering renown,
Fame of the little town
After the flag-hung city;
Deny the ruin pity!
Close the lid down
Upon the gradual dismay
Of disconcerted singing,
Unloose the fingers' clinging
That has so lost its cunning,
Turn from the faltering renown,
Fame of the little town
After the flag-hung city;
Deny the ruin pity!
Pity? Yes, for the failing song
That like a droughty stream
That like a droughty stream
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