The fiddler danced as he played his tune
And his fiddle lit up the tiny room,
Music leapt in his shining eyes,
The man was a Maverick in disguise.
He bent his bow as the rosin hummed,
He tapped his toe and he gently thumbed
And his long dark hair fell across his face,
And the fiddle warmed to his sweet embrace.
Out of his being a sound poured forth
As if from all corners of the earth,
They left their children, they left their lives
To follow this Maverick in disguise.
The music rose and the music fell
It came from heaven and it came from hell,
And none who heard it were ever the same,
But nobody knew the Maverick’s name.
They tried to buy him with promises sweet
But the Maverick danced them off their feet,
Promises are not to the fiddler’s ear
The things he holds to be very dear.
And the fiddler bent his rosin bow
For one last chorus before he’d go,
He asked one more for a silver crown,
But the people laughed and the fiddlers frowned.
And he took his bow that he laid to rest
In the neat black box with the silver clasp,
He closed the lid and a silence fell,
And none of those people came back from hell.
Caroline Baldock© 1995