The Maverick

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