Fiddler JonesThe earth keeps some vibration goingThere in your heart, and that is you.And if the people find you can fiddle,Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.What do you see, a harvest of clover?Or a meadow to walk through to the river?The wind’s in the corn; you rub your handsFor beeves hereafter ready for market;Or else you hear the rustle of skirtsLike the girls when dancing at Little Grove.To Cooney Potter a pillar of dustOr whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;They looked to me like Red-Head SammyStepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”How could I till my forty acresNot to speak of getting more,With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolosStirred in my brain by crows and robinsAnd the creak of a wind-mill—only these?And I never started to plow in my lifeThat some one did not stop in the roadAnd take me away to a dance or picnic.I ended up with forty acres;I ended up with a broken fiddle—And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,And not a single regret.
The earth keeps some vibration goingThere in your heart, and that is you.And if the people find you can fiddle,Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.What do you see, a harvest of clover?Or a meadow to walk through to the river?The wind’s in the corn; you rub your handsFor beeves hereafter ready for market;Or else you hear the rustle of skirtsLike the girls when dancing at Little Grove.To Cooney Potter a pillar of dustOr whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;They looked to me like Red-Head SammyStepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”How could I till my forty acresNot to speak of getting more,With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolosStirred in my brain by crows and robinsAnd the creak of a wind-mill—only these?And I never started to plow in my lifeThat some one did not stop in the roadAnd take me away to a dance or picnic.I ended up with forty acres;I ended up with a broken fiddle—And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,And not a single regret.