DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.43382#0135
Nr. 3.
Chorus.
Look thou humble be and lowly,
Nuns and friars sadly sing;
Mingling with their voices holy
Sounds a merry fiddle-string.
Tenor Solo.
That they’d let him bring his fiddle
Was the fiddler’s last request!
“Lil not still stand in the middle,
Hl make music with the rest!”
The doomed fiddler with them leading,
As they past the chapel go,
On its threshold, sadly pleading,
He in music teils his woe.
All who him had hated madly
Sigh, “Poor fiddler-wight, alack!”
“This but beg I”, sings he sadly,
“To the Saint let me go back!”
They allow it, sad the ditty
That reveals his heart’s distress,
Straight the Saint is moved with pity,
Hark, the rustling of her dress!
Smiling on the youth there singing,
Sweeter smile none ever drew,
Straight she Strips her left foot, flinging
Down to him her golden shoe.
Hushed they all are now completely,
Every Christian sees it clear,
That the man who singeth sweetly
To the Saints is even dear.
Chorus.
Hushed the all are now completely etc.
All with garlands gay they make him,
Give him wine and gold galore,
Then to song and feasting take him
To the Town-hall as before.
Only with kind looks he’s greeted,
All their anger now has fled,
And the fiddler man is seated
At the merry table’s head.
Tenor Solo.
But when, winedrows’d, no one heeds him,
He his shoes takes in his hand,
Going, as the moonlight leads him,
Gaily to another land.
Chorus.
Since then they of Gmünd give greeting
Kindly to each fiddler-wight, -
He is sure of welcome meeting,
He must dance there half the night.
Hence you hear them fiddling, singing,
Hence you see them feast and drink,
If one tire of fiddle stringing,
On his empty glass he’ll clink.
And when done are all men’s doings,
Hushed the feasters’ merry throng,
There will go up from Gmiind’s ruins
Echoes still of merry song.
131
Chorus.
Look thou humble be and lowly,
Nuns and friars sadly sing;
Mingling with their voices holy
Sounds a merry fiddle-string.
Tenor Solo.
That they’d let him bring his fiddle
Was the fiddler’s last request!
“Lil not still stand in the middle,
Hl make music with the rest!”
The doomed fiddler with them leading,
As they past the chapel go,
On its threshold, sadly pleading,
He in music teils his woe.
All who him had hated madly
Sigh, “Poor fiddler-wight, alack!”
“This but beg I”, sings he sadly,
“To the Saint let me go back!”
They allow it, sad the ditty
That reveals his heart’s distress,
Straight the Saint is moved with pity,
Hark, the rustling of her dress!
Smiling on the youth there singing,
Sweeter smile none ever drew,
Straight she Strips her left foot, flinging
Down to him her golden shoe.
Hushed they all are now completely,
Every Christian sees it clear,
That the man who singeth sweetly
To the Saints is even dear.
Chorus.
Hushed the all are now completely etc.
All with garlands gay they make him,
Give him wine and gold galore,
Then to song and feasting take him
To the Town-hall as before.
Only with kind looks he’s greeted,
All their anger now has fled,
And the fiddler man is seated
At the merry table’s head.
Tenor Solo.
But when, winedrows’d, no one heeds him,
He his shoes takes in his hand,
Going, as the moonlight leads him,
Gaily to another land.
Chorus.
Since then they of Gmünd give greeting
Kindly to each fiddler-wight, -
He is sure of welcome meeting,
He must dance there half the night.
Hence you hear them fiddling, singing,
Hence you see them feast and drink,
If one tire of fiddle stringing,
On his empty glass he’ll clink.
And when done are all men’s doings,
Hushed the feasters’ merry throng,
There will go up from Gmiind’s ruins
Echoes still of merry song.
131