Small sturdy one,
Roistering down the centuries,
Drunk with the fiddlers’ fingers,
(Never a dearth of these,
The living crowding where the dead have been),
Pure promiscuous dandled violin!
Cæsar of sound, my songs in passing, cry,
Morituri te salutamus!—and passing, die.
Fold now the song away.
Close the lid down