raindrops wash his tears as the fiddler plays
his jet black locks caress his cheek, slowly shifting grey
he has sung his heartbreaking ode for years on end
his true love an audience ne'er again to attend
eyes that once shined a bright green hue
dulled by sorrowful tears turned the deepest blue
once a lover he'd had near the western shores of Ireland
the love of his life, a gorgeous young lass, for her he'd asked her hand
nary a day passed were they not by the other's side
alas, the young lass had a secret she could not abide
untimely demise had she met at the sleight of her very own hand
a pain so harsh no longer could she withstand
alive once he was, now just a fiddler in the hidden glen
ne'er to to step outside the trees to the light of day again
'neath the crescent moon he lies
now a slave to the fiddlers' tune, he cries