The Fiddler and His Lady He made his fiddle a lady in the exhaled haze of a Dingle pub As the drums and strums danced the clack of Keryl's spoons the old men scratched their violins But not Maguire's lady She cooed and sighed as his chin so gently rested on her body His peaceful touch drew across her like a warm breath through hair of silk Then the rogue Jim made her weep til she bit us with her pain and a drip of tears seasoned the Guinness But he knew his lady so well The instant he smiled and her hopes took wing She laughed like he'd never made her grieve Her chorts so loud they drew a curious boy who jigged on the stains of the floor She giggled at the jests of Macguire's bow and the boy floated above the hardwood his feet occasionally tapping the floor At closing time Jim laid his lady in her worn velvet bed and locked her away as if she only wanted to sing to him He hugged her under his arm protecting his rare lady from the damp chill of the Irish summer night. J. Kevin Wolfe |