The night was dark, the wind did howl, When Tom the Fiddler left his bowl; His nose once of a fiery hue, Was now deep tinged with modest blue; Fierce o’er the heath the wind did blow, And swiftly fell the drifting snow. Tom was returning from the fair With lightsome heart devoid of care; His fiddle, as I’ve heard it sung, Across one ample shoulder hung In leathern case, and by his side, A horn of snuff was well supplied; A huge nob-stick he firmly grasped, And to his breast a loaf he clasped,―― Poor Tom had once seen better days Than fiddling for a looby’s praise; At country club, or wake, or fair, He would have scorned to scrape a hair; But now alas! old times are gone, He roams neglected and unknown; And strangers claim that high renown Which Tommy once had thought his own. At length he reaches a large mansion, he craves admission and shelter from the storm: The lady happened to be nigh, She heard his voice and language high, She marked his wet and dirty clothes, His pimpled cheek and reverend nose, And bade her maid the servants tell, That they should use the fiddler well: For she had known adversity, Tho’ raised to such a high degree; And sorrow too, for in her bloom She wept o’er her third husband’s tomb. After due attention to the creature comforts of the Fiddler, he obliges the company with his lay, in the manner of Scott’s last Minstrel, and at the end of each Canto refreshes himself with a draught of good October ale. The opening lines of the third Canto describe his partiality for strong liquor:―― I. And said I that my throat was dry; And said I that no cheer was nigh, And that all giving souls were dead, And that the good to heaven were fled. And that I ne’er should put my nose Again into a tankard’s brim; And that I ne’er again should dose, Before an ale-house hearth so grim? How could I fancy such mishap, Would e’er fall from Dame Fortune’s lap, On me the happiest of mankind, The merriest mortal you may find? II. In peace, malt liquor’s cheap and good; In war, ’tis poor and badly brewed; In kitchens, now they drink small beer; Malt, hops and water, grow so dear. Good liquor rules both church and state, It brightens many a stupid pate; And men and saints, to my own thinking, Are often prone unto hard drinking. Heaven, we are told, through a glass is seen; A glass of grog is what they mean. * * * * * The poem closes with a description of Tommy’s fate:――