I am yet the fiddler of Dooney
now fiddler of every place
drawing the bow and lightly
softening every face

I've learned of the old spirits
of many a lost country-o
whose music flew so swiftly
but my fingers now move slow

And all that's true is proven
now it's the end of time
I'll bring to life my fiddle
not to record a crime

As the old steps are the new steps
measures writ to repeat
my fiddle's voice growing gentle
outlasts the loud drumbeat

So the good folk and the others
who approach me to say
'Play my mammy's favourite'
they always get their way