  'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling, By weedy ways forlorn: I make the blackbird's music Ere in his breast 'tis born: The sleeping larks I waken Twixt the midnight and the morn. No man alive has seen me, But women hear me play Sometimes at door or window, Fiddling the souls away,— The child's soul and the colleen's Out of the covering clay. Make music with me now: Alone the raths I wander Or ride the whitethorn bough; But the wild swans they know me, And the horse that draws the plough. Nora Hopper |
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