Sitting on a stool
There up on the stage
His body was withered
And worn by old age
He positioned his hand
And held up his bow
Nurturing the fiddle
For a tune to grow
It moved gently
Across the strings
The fiddle was soothed
and began to sing
His fingers danced
For a known melody
Upbeat yet mellow
With smooth harmony
It sang stories
Of Scotland's shores
Irish rovers and
Of some more
It knew the story
of Willie McBride
The Four Green Fields
and heroes that died
He continued strong
Under a light dim
No person can play
A ballad like him
 
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