The man of the hills is a remarkable fellow ;
His whiskers are white and his molars are yellow ;
But his old violin has a tone rich and mellow,
And I would follow wherever he goes.
The drop on his nose is as bright as a jewel,
And his face is aflame with spiritous fuel,
But life to old Jabez has been middling cruel,
And I feel pity for all his woes.
He’s never alone for the children and fairies
Cluster around in the lanes and the gareys ;
The horses stand still, there’s no work in the dairies,
And everyone listens and everyone knows.
But Jabez is gone and his fiddle is broken,
And in a small churchyard some last words were spoken,
And nothing remains for a sign or a token
Of Jabez the fiddler, the stirrer of toes.
Except in the night when the breezes are teasing
The tops of the trees, then I hear Jabez wheezing
As if in another place someone he’s pleasing,
And little white angels are dancing in rows.
Mona’s Herald 15.10.63