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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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Fiddler

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (2430 reads)
Oh! I have built a house at last,

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 no 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.


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