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THE FIDDLERHe closed his eyelids and begun He played his fiddle clear and strong That music, in my heart I bore Long after it was played no more. I heard him playing in the street And listened to the notes so sweet He played them high and then so low And held me captive with string and bow. He pushed the hair back from his face He winked and smiled at all It didn't matter what the time Or where the night would fall. His feelings came through bow and wood The music, a language understood Music of sadness, romance and joy Of other days and times gone by. Perhaps he will return again To Yeats fine County from the Glen An play the music that we bore In our hearts, when played no more. Sadly, one day the Lord will call The name of Jim and say You can't stay down there anymore We need you here to play. He then will join the heavenly choir And play his fiddle sweet Then the angels will stand around and say Now him, we cannot beat! Julie Graham © 2005 – All rights reserved. (This poem was written especially for the Fiddler, Jim McKillop who comes from the Glens of Antrim (Rep. of Ireland)- one of the greatest fiddlers ever heard)! Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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