Poems and Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh, David was a famous king,
An' maister man o' singers;
His fiddle was a witching thing
When touched by David's fingers;
But David never stirred a string
To melody as fine, oh,
And David's fiddle couldn't sing
Like this owd brid o'mine, oh!

II

My bonny little angel-neest,
So tender, sweet an' funny,
I wouldn't swap my music-kist
To own a mint o' money.

I sometimes think it's gradely wick;
There's singin' brids inside on't;
An' not a string but's swarmin' thick
Wi' little elves astride on't!

III

For it can sob, an' moan an' sigh,
An' it can pout an' whimper;
An' it can coax an' wheedle sly,
An' it can lisp and simper:
An' it can laugh, an' crow, an' shout,
An' it can wail so keen, oh,
Folk connot see their gate about
For th' wayter i' their e'en, oh!

IV

Th' wood were groon i' fairy-lond
That th' bits o' pegs were made on;
An' every nook on't thrills wi' life
The minute that it's played on:

For th' younger end o' fairy-folk,
They're dancin' upo' th' bridge on't;
They're caperin' upo' th' fiddle-bow,
An' ridin' upo' th' ridge on't!

V

As I go tweedlin' up an' down
I meet wi' welcome free, oh!
There's never a mon that comes to town
They're hauve as fain to see, oh:
For th' childer bring'n me butter cakes,
To tickle up my timber;
An' fuddlers bring'n me gills of ale,
To make my elbow limber!

VI

My darlin' little singin' brid,
We'n both grown owd together;
An' we'n bin kind an' faithful friends,
Through dark an' sunny weather:

An' though nought else should make a moan
The day that I shall dee, oh,
If they'n let this little brid alone
It'll sing a hymn for me, oh!