In life's fair morn, a FIDDLE , was his choice,
This he preferr'd to Reason's sober voice;
Some scores of tunes, on cat-gut taught to play,
Sweetly he scraped the dream of life away:
From house to house (the joy of all) he ran,
Welcome to all, this music-making man;
Where'er he went, he bade all discord cease
And howling brats by him were hush'd to peace:
Where'er he went, to play for beau or belle,
Much they admired the GOD within the shell ;
Each grey-hair'd dame for that postpon'd all care,
And own'd this fiddle was a sweet affair.—
No foe had he ('twas worthy of remark),
Except, perhaps, the preacher and his clerk
Some deacon grave, who lived by looking sad,
Some rival wight, who no such fiddle had:
These were, indeed, disgusted with its tone;
Because—the world preferr'd it to their own.
  But, mark the event—with all his fiddling skill,
This man of tunes went capering down the hill:
From endless mirth, an idle habit sprung,
And years advanced, in spite of all he sung!—
Despising home, and absent day from day,
Perplext with weeds his little garden lay:—
Hence plagues came on, and hence, too soon arose
From midnight drams the diamonds on his nose;
Hence, saucy cares, that would no longer wait,
Seiz'd all the man, and pictured out his fate,
New artists rose, that each became his foe,
Play'd livelier tunes (or people thought them so);
Soon out of date the grey-hair'd scraper grew,
(The truth was this, they wanted something NEW ;
Surpriz'd he saw full seventy years were past—
“And do I wake!—(the fiddler cry'd) at last?
“While other's toil'd, to bless the rainy day .
“Ye powers! have I done nothing else but play? ”—
With grief he felt the patches on his coat,
Himself—his fiddle—on the world afloat;
His hat, a slouch, that beggars might abuse,
And toes, uncouth, that peep'd from both his shoes—
Then curs'd his strings, his rosin, and his art,
And said—“'Tis so! your fiddler must depart!”
  Now he is dead!—ye few that prized him still,
That once admired—nay, once adored his skill:
And THOU , to whom I dedicate my lay,
Ah! for the joys he gave, some tribute pay!
You—at whose wedding he so finely play'd,
That night, when J ULIA was to heaven conveyed,
Whose charms, THAT NIGHT , bade every bosom glow,
Charms, that were toasted twenty years ago!—
For him —that once you deem'd out-done by none,
For him , provide the monumental stone!
From other worlds he had not much to hope,
No friend to Luther, Calvin, or the Pope.
(Perhaps some better work employs him there—
Perhaps on Pluto's coast no fiddles are!—)
Howe'er that be, allow me to advise,
Plant some memorial where his carcase lies.
A N EWARK STONE , companion of repose,
Should tell the inscription that the muse bestows:
And ere that STONE his mouldering dust confines,
You give me but the HINT —I'll write the lines!

   The Epitaph

Here lies a man, whom music call'd her own,
Who in a fiddling world possess'd the throne:
His strains from Nature he, 'tis certain, caught,
Yet from his fiddle never saved a groat—
The heavenly muse was, to the last, his friend,
But to his wants none would a shilling lend.
Blind as he was, and tho' Euterpe fired,
Yet empty as his fiddle he retired.
Why did she lend him her celestial strains?
Go, ask the fiddle why it had not brains.—
  Shall we say more?—yes—what we say we mean—
Indeed a fiddle made him very lean!—
They who, like J ACOB , put their trust in sound,
Like him, must meet the poor-house under ground,
With not a dollar to bequeath their heirs,
With not a groat to meet the churches prayers.—
Sweet be his sleep!—and truely, now, a shade,
May his bad debts for music all be paid,
May his old fiddle change into a harp,
And his NEW EYES distinguish FLAT from SHARP .