In ways unseen, a solemn murmuring tide;
Those through the narrow path their journey bend
Of sweeter sort, and to the earth descend.
O’er the small pipe, at equal distance, lie
Eight shining holes, o’er which his fingers fly.
From side to side the aerial spirit bounds;
The flying fingers form the passing sounds,
That, issuing gently through the polished door,
Mix with the common air and charm no more.”
The piper confounded his opponent with the dexterity of his performance, and the fiddler gave up the contest. The maid, however, with the proverbial fickleness of womankind, gave the preference to the loser, and went away with him, leaving the piper lamenting his misfortunes.