And so they danced in capering cuts,—For favors using merry-thoughts,—And bones went zipping in and outAnd flipped and flappered all aboutTo whistling of the brumal wind,—A brumal niveous most unkind,And whistling rheumatizing wind.
The while he played the bones and sangThe rambling chord I struck twing twang.A merry time we had till break of day,—And then into their graves they crept away—A diddering clattering mess of bones,I heard them say in monotones,A snuggling down in their graves deep,"Come, fiddler man, come down and sleep."
'Tis true, whenever on a grave I sitSome fool thing rises out of it;I never twang my fiddle stringsBut that I see these foolish things.
[74]
