There was a musician wha play'd a good stick,
He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle,
An' in his profession he had right good luck
At bridals his elbow to diddle.
But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die,
As a' men to dust must return;
An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e,
That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.
Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat,
Lamenting the day that she saw,
An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat,
That silent now hang on the wa'.
Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek,
Sae newly weel washen wi' tears,
As in came a younker some comfort to speak,
Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears.
"Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms,
Consent but to marry me now,
I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms,
An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."
The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said,
"Dear sir, to dissemble I hate,
If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed,
Folks needna contend against fate."
He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung,
An' put a' the thairms in tune,
The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung,
For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.
Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay,
For death still the dearest maun sever;
For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay,
An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.