As ever behind its dress parade,
Stands the soul of the master, flowing with the sound,
As it comes to our ears in tones profound,
Or tintinnabulations of drum or fife,
Calling us to war and its deadly strife;
Or those mysterious strains of the violin,
In the hands of the artist held in,
By his neck, hands, shoulders and chin
So none can tell where he stops for fiddle to begin;
Both moving together in such perfect time