There were rusty daggers and battered breastplates, And jugs of pewter and carved oak cases, And china monsters with hideous faces, And cracked old plates that had once been best plates; And needle-covers and such old-wivery; Wonderful chess-men made from ivory; Cut-glass bottles for wines and brandies, Sticks once flourished by bucks and dandies; Deep old glasses they drank enough in, And golden boxes they took their snuff in; Rings that flashed on a gallant's knuckles, Seals and lockets and shining buckles; Watches sadly in need of menders, Blackened firedogs and dinted fenders; Prints and pictures and quaint knick-knackery, Rare old silver and mere gimcrackery-- Such was the shop, and in its middle Stood an old man holding a dusty fiddle. The Vagabond bowed and the old man bowed, And then the Vagabond spoke aloud. "Sir," he said, "we are two of a trade, Each for the other planned and made, And so we shall come to a fair agreement, Since I am for you and you're for me meant. And I, having travelled hither from far, gain You yourself as my life's best bargain. But I am one Who chaffers for fun, Who when he perceives such stores of beauty Outspread conceives it to be his duty To buy of his visit a slight memento: Some curious gem of the quattrocento, Or something equally rare and priceless, Though its outward fashions perhaps entice less: A Sultan's slipper, a Bishop's mitre, Or the helmet owned by a Roundhead fighter, Or an old buff coat by the years worn thin, Or--what do you say to the violin? I'll wager you've many, so you can't miss one, And I--well, I have a mind for this one, This which was made, as you must know, Three hundred years and a year ago By one who dwelt in Cremona city For me--but I lost it, more's the pity, Sixty years back in a wild disorder That flamed to a fight on the Afghan border; And, whatever it costs, I am bound to win it, For I left the half of my full soul in it." And now as he spoke his eyes began To shiver the heart of the grey old man; And the old man stuttered, And "Sir," he muttered, "The words you speak are the merest riddle, But-five pounds down, and you own the fiddle! And I'll choose for your hand, while the pounds you dole out, A bow with which you may pick that soul out." So said so done, and our friend again Was out in the raging wind and rain. Swift through the twisting street he passed And came to the Market Square at last, And climbed and stood On a block of wood Where a pent-house, leant to a wall, gave shelter From the brunt of the blizzard's helter-skelter, And, waving his bow, he cried, "Ahoy! Now steady your hearts for an hour of joy!" And so to his cheek and jutting chin Straight he fitted the violin, And, rounding his arm in a movement gay, Touched the strings and began to play.