Ceitinn

The Devil's Fiddler

That soft melody floats on the breeze,
Not made by human hands.
From whence? Why, the Devil’s Fiddler,
Unmatched in all the lands.

Listen as he plays a sad, sad tune,
Wrenching tears from our souls.
But now, he speeds the tempo,
Sending us dancing through the knolls.

How beautiful he is when he plays!
He’s a paradox, marked by Fate.
For the violin he has such a love,
But for much else, terrible hate.

The Sabbat fires can’t destroy him,
Nor can cynicism and madness.
The violin, it seems, makes Life
Too alluring a temptress.

And what does he think, now,
When he sits and plays his songs?
Has he forgiven himself, and those
Who answered his with returnéd wrongs?

He plays even now, at nights,
In the House of the Rising Moon.
You might not get in, but if you wait
Outside, your ears will catch the tune.

The Devil’s Fiddler is the best, and has yet
One of his own skill to meet.
For the Devil went down to Georgia, not Paris,
But it was at Nicki’s hands Johnny tasted defeat.

That melody wafts on the soft breeze,
Not made by human hands.
From whence? Why, the Devil’s Fiddler,
Unmatched in all the lands.