And so he’d jerk and file and squeak Like twenty thousand hinges, While every sympathetic cheek Was racked with shoots and twinges. The lawyer left his lease or will, The workman stopped his hammer, The druggist ceased to roll the pill, And ran to calm the clamor. From doors and windows jingled down A dancing shower of copper, Accompanied by many a frown, And sometimes speech improper. He gathered up the grudging dole, And sought a different station, But always with a bitter soul, And deep humiliation. For what though music win you pence, If praise it fail to win you? If fees are paid to hurry hence, And never to continue? “Bad times for art,” he’d sometimes say To any youthful scholar; “They’d rather grub for brass to-day, Than listen to Apoller.” And so with quaint, pathetic face, Aggrieved and disappointed, The minstrel moved from place to place, And mourned the times disjointed. His hat was browner than of yore, His grizzled head was greyer, And none had ever cried “Encore,” Or praised the poor old player. I came to feel (and was not wrong)— His day was nearly over— He’d not be bothered very long By cruel Kitty Clover. One day, within a shady square, Where people lounged or sat round, He’d played his second woeful air, And now he took the hat round. He met with many a gibe and grin, With coarser disaffection, The while he tottered out and in, Receiving the collection. At length he stopped, with downcast eye, Beneath a lime tree’s cover, Where sat a maiden, sweet and shy, Beside her handsome lover. Half hidden in her leafy place, The modest little sitter Just glanced into the fiddler’s face, And read his story bitter. Unskilled in life and worldly ways, By womanhood’s divining, She knew the minstrel’s soul for praise And sympathy was pining. Herself with all a heart could need, No dearest dream denied her, She felt her gentle spirit bleed For that poor wretch beside her. She hung her head a little while, Then, growing somewhat bolder, She rose, and with a blush and smile, Just touched the minstrel’s shoulder. “How charmingly you play,” she said. “How nice to be so clever! My friend and I” (her cheeks grew red) “Could sit entranced for ever. I’ve taken lessons—all in vain; My touch is simply hateful. Oh! if you’d play those tunes again, I’d be so very grateful.”