To the music of the fiddle and the bow.
But the mischief and the mirth,
And the frolics 'round the hearth,
And the flitting of the shadows to and fro,
Like a dream have passed away—
Now I'm growing old and gray,
And I'll soon hang up the fiddle and the bow.
When a few more notes I've made,
When a few more tunes I've played,
I'll be sleeping where the snowy daises grow.