'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling, By weedy ways forlorn: I make the blackbird's music Ere in his breast 'tis born: The sleeping larks I waken 'Twixt the midnight and the morn. No man alive has seen me, But women hear me play Sometimes at the door or window, Fiddling the souls away,-- The child's soul and the colleen's Out of the covering clay. None of my fairy kinsmen Make music with me now: Alone the raths I wander' Or ride the whitethorn bough; But the wild swans they know me, And the horse that draws the plough | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER by JOHN CROWE RANSOM TEN YEARS OLD by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE LITTLE GIRL LOST, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE HYMN TO MONT BLANC [IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI] by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ROBIN ADAIR by CAROLINE KEPPEL THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW |