Michael Mchale And The Magic Fiddle Poem by Thomas Vaughan Jones

Michael MacHale was a travelling man,
a shiftless, but loveable rogue.
Renowned for his blarney
and devilish charm
his wits, and his broad Irish brogue.

He wandered along, with a smile and a song,
his heart never carried a care.
Though his shoes had no soles,
and his coat was all holes,
and his pockets were empty and bare.

As he travelled the land with his hat in his hand,
he took rest in a field in Kildare.
He was sat on the ground,
when he heard this sweet sound,
a magic, melodious air.

He raised his head high, with inquisitive eye,
and looked on a wondrous scene.
Saw the fiddle that played
such a sweet serenade
in the hands of a wee man in green.

He jumped up with a start, with greed in his heart,
and he stole that sweet fiddle away.
then he took off and ran
from the little green man
little knowing how he’d rue the day.

For he’d stolen the fiddle from Liam O’Diddle
a leprechaun, fiery and brave,
and for better or worse,
Liam uttered a curse
which poor Michael would take to his grave.

“You can’t throw it away, you are destined to play,
you must fiddle the rest of your life
There’ll be no time for bed,
till the day that you’re dead
this old fiddle will serve as your wife.”

So the end of this tale sees poor Michael MacHale
his laughter has turned into tears,
It’s so sad to relate,
he’ll be left to his fate,
as he fiddles away through the years.