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There once was a roving gypsy,
And he came from over the plain;
He played the finest fiddle,
So The Fiddler was his name.
They said that he came from a foreign land,
And his people were so low;
But when they would hear his music,
They would follow him wherever he'd go.
He played in the court of the king and queen,
And more at the country 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.
