Fiddler Jones

The Earth keeps some vibration going

There 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 hands

For beeves hereafter ready for market;

Or else you hear the rustle of skirts

Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.

To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust

Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;

They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy

Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor”

How could I till my forty acres

Not to speak of getting more

With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos

Stirred in my brain by crows and robins

And the creek of a windmill — only these?

And I never started to plow in my life

That some one did not stop in the road

And 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.