'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 the door or window, Fiddling the souls away,-- The child's soul and the colleen's Out of the covering clay. None of my fairy kinsmen 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 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY A LEAVE-TAKING by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE JUNE BRACKEN AND HEATHER by ALFRED TENNYSON FOR EVER AND EVERMORE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) MY HIDING PLACE AND ME by BARBARA BROOKS BIXLEY |