(Founded on a Norwegian Folk-lore.)
There lived in the land of Ole Bull
A peasant-fiddler of old,
Whose soul with music was often more full
Than his violin ever told.
He knew not the art of clefs and notes,
Such seemed but some mystic runes,
But he heard the music that richly floats
In nature’s unwritten tunes.
He played for the dances at many a farm,
Led many a bridal train,
And everywhere did he naively charm
The mirth-loving maid and swain;
But sometimes he played in a lonely place,
When no one, perchance, was near,
And then there was sadness in his face,
In his eyes a furtive tear.
For the strains which he heard he could never play,
Though trying it o’er and o’er,
Forgotten they were from day to day,
And wandered his way no more;
Sometimes in anger he flung the thing,
Which would not obey his soul,
Then took it again with its broken string,
Like a mother her child from his fall.
On a Christmas eve he had listened long
To the tones in the snowy air--
The bells that sent forth their joyous song,
Re-echoing here and there
In mountain hollow or forest deep,
Or far o’er the frozen fjord,
A thousand voices woke from their sleep,
To join in the heavenly chord.
In the house the Christmas feast was spread,
And he ate and drank as he should,
There was meat and pudding and raisin bread,
And the Yule-tide brew was good;
They feasted well on that holy eve,
And did not forget a pray’r,
And the fiddler felt it was good to live,
For banished he had all care.
In his sleep that night he seemed to see
His room full of fairy-folk,
They danced about with a wondrous glee
To the tunes their fiddler awoke--
Such tunes as he never had heard before,
So soft, so clear, and gay,
Like silver ripples against a shore,
In the morn of a summer’s day.
He saw the player, his strings and bow,
Each touch of his finger tips,
From which such gladness did overflow,
With pleasure of lovers’ lips;
He asked the elfin to teach him one,
Ah, one from his repertoire,
Which he gladly did, and when it was done,
Another, just for encore.
He taught him three, and he taught him four,
Yea, six, while the fairies danced,
Till a tankard of beer fell to the floor,
At which the elfin glanced,
And saw a cross on its side engraved,
Then rose and run with a cry,
The fairies following, as morning waved
His rosy plumes in the sky.
The peasant awoke from his fairy dream,
Sought his fiddle, began to play,
And strange enough, as it now may seem,
Remembered tunes in the elfin way,
He played them all till the day shone bright,
He played them all till the church bells rang,
To call to mass among candle lights,
To hear the story which angels sang.
But neither mass, nor the homily
Could fix his mind on the solemn things;
An absent look in his face one might see,
And his fingers moved as on fiddle-strings;
His wife did see it and almost wept,
And prayed that he for sweet heaven’s sake
Might be from fairies and devils kept,
Both when asleep, or when awake.
That Christmas season, for three weeks long,
He played for dances, yea, every night,
His melodies were both sweet and strong,
And gave the people such great delight,
They said they never before had heard
Such music come from a violin,
And wondereed much of what things had stirred
The fiddler’s heart, or where he had been.
But this he kept to himself alone,
For often since he the fairies saw,
List to their music when brightly shone
The moon on greensward or glitt’ring snow,
And more and more did he learn their art,
Yea, some did whisper, he was possest,
But he had won every woman’s heart,
When he was old, and was laid to rest.