From the recording Mountain Fiddler

To me, Pattie Hopkins' fiddling is inspired perfection.


Mountain Fiddler
I took my fiddle
That sings and cries
To a hill in the middle
Of Paradise.
I sat at the base
Of a golden stone
In that holy place
To play alone.
I tuned the strings
And began to play,
And a crowd of wings
Were bent my way.
A voice said
Amid the stir:
“We that were dead,
O Fiddler,
“With purest gold
Are robed and shod,
And we behold
The face of God.
“Our halls can show
No thing so rude
As your horsehair bow,
Or your fiddlewood;
“And yet can they
So well entrance
If you but play
Then we must dance!”