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There once was a roving gypsy,
And he came from o'er the plain;
He played the finest fiddle,
So the Fiddler was his name.
Well, they said that he came from a foreign land,
And his people were so low;
Ah, but when they would hear his music,
They would follow him where ever he'd go.
He played in the court of the King and Queen,
And more at the county fairs;
He won the heart of the Princess,
And all of the maidens fair.
Until one cold night he was bore a son,
With the eyes of his New-Found-Land;
He was born underneath a starry sky,
In the gypsy caravan.
Now as the generations passed,
From father onto son;
The music of the gypsy,
Was heard to carry on.
Till the turn of the twentieth century,
When they came to America,
Now the song of the first old gypsy,
Can be heard to this very day.
