Beranger's "Broken Fiddle"
There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend,Pay you no heed unto my sorrow:But feast to-day while yet you may,--Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
"Give us a tune," the foemen cried,In one of their profane caprices;I bade them "No"--they frowned, and, lo!They dashed this innocent in pieces!
This fiddle was the village pride--The mirth of every fete enhancing;Its wizard art set every heartAs well as every foot to dancing.
How well the bridegroom knew its voice,As from its strings its song went gushing!Nor long delayed the promised maidEquipped for bridal, coy and blushing.
Why, it discoursed so merrily,It quickly banished all dejection;And yet, when pressed, our priest confessedI played with pious circumspection.
And though, in patriotic song,It was our guide, compatriot, teacher,I never thought the foe had wroughtHis fury on the helpless creature!
But there, poor dog, my faithful friend,Pay you no heed unto my sorrow;I prithee take this paltry cake,--Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choirAs this old fiddle used to do it?Can vintage come, with this voice dumbThat used to bid a welcome to it?
It soothed the weary hours of toil,It brought forgetfulness to debtors;Time and again from wretched menIt struck oppression's galling fetters.
No man could hear its voice, and hate;It stayed the teardrop at its portal;With that dear thing I was a kingAs never yet was monarch mortal!
Now has the foe--the vandal foe--Struck from my hands their pride and glory;There let it lie! In vengeance, IShall wield another weapon, gory!
And if, O countrymen, I fall,Beside our grave let this be spoken:"No foe of France shall ever danceAbove the heart and fiddle, broken!"
So come, poor dog, my faithful friend,I prithee do not heed my sorrow,But feast to-day while yet you may,For we are like to starve to-morrow.
Words in this poem
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- bade
- A form of the pat tense of Bid.
- bridegroom n.
- A man newly married, or just about to be married. [OE. bridegome, brudgume, AS. br (akin to OS. br, D. bruidegom, bruigom, OHG. pr, MHG. briutegome, G. bräutigam); AS. br bride + guma man, akin to Goth. guma, Ic]
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- dejection n.
- A casting down; depression. Hallywell. [L. dejectio a casting down: cf. F. déjection.]
- circumspection n.
- Attention to all the facts and circumstances of a case; caution; watchfulness. [L. circumspectio.]
- compatriot n.
- One of the same country, and having like interests and feeling. [F. compatriote, LL. compatriotus; com- + patriota a native. See Patriot, and cf. Copatriot.]
- prithee interj.
- A corruption of pray thee; as, I prithee; generally used without I.
- galling a.
- Fitted to gall or chafe; vexing; harassing; irritating.
- stayed a.
- Staid; fixed; settled; sober; -- now written staid. See Staid.
- wield v. t.
- To govern; to rule; to keep, or have in charge; also, to possess. [OE. welden to govern, to have power over, to possess, AS. geweldan, gewyldan, from wealdan; akin to OS. waldan, OFries. walda, G. walten, OHG. waltan, Icel. val]
- gory a.
- Covered with gore or clotted blood. [From Gore.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Beranger's "Broken Fiddle" is in the public domain. This text is taken from A Little Book of Western Verse, Project Gutenberg ebook #9606; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Eugene Field, Beranger's "Broken Fiddle", in A Little Book of Western Verse (1889), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #9606, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/field-western-verse/beranger-s-broken-fiddle.html, id L24635.
Form and metre
Beranger's "Broken Fiddle" is 52 lines in 13 stanzas of 4 lines each. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 90%).
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 -A-A friend · sorrowA · may · morrowA
- 2 -A-A cried · capricesA · lo · piecesA
- 3 -A-A pride · enhancingA · heart · dancingA
- 4 -A-A voice · gushingA · maid · blushingA
- 5 -A-A merrily · dejectionA · confessed · circumspectionA
- 6 -A-A song · teacherA · wrought · creatureA
- 7 -A-A friend · sorrowA · cake · morrowA
- 8 -A-A choir · itA · dumb · itA
- 9 -A-A toil · debtorsA · men · fettersA
- 10 -A-A hate · portalA · king · mortalA
- 11 -A-A foe · gloryA · i · goryA
- 12 -A-A fall · spokenA · dance · brokenA
- 13 -A-A friend · sorrowA · may · morrowA
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| But feast to-day while yet you may,-- | 8 | ········ |
| Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow! | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| "Give us a tune," the foemen cried, | 8 | ········ |
| In one of their profane caprices; | 9 | ····˘/˘/˘ |
| I bade them "No"--they frowned, and, lo! | 8 | ········ |
| They dashed this innocent in pieces! | 9 | ···/˘˘·/˘ |
| This fiddle was the village pride-- | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| The mirth of every fete enhancing; | 9 | ···/˘·˘/˘ |
| Its wizard art set every heart | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| As well as every foot to dancing. | 9 | ···/˘··/˘ |
| How well the bridegroom knew its voice, | 8 | ···/···· |
| As from its strings its song went gushing! | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Nor long delayed the promised maid | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| Equipped for bridal, coy and blushing. | 9 | ˘/·/˘··/˘ |
| Why, it discoursed so merrily, | 8 | ··/˘·/˘˘ |
| It quickly banished all dejection; | 9 | ·/˘/˘·˘/˘ |
| And yet, when pressed, our priest confessed | 8 | ····/·˘/ |
| I played with pious circumspection. | 9 | ···/˘·˘/˘ |
| And though, in patriotic song, | 8 | ····˘/˘· |
| It was our guide, compatriot, teacher, | 9 | ··/·˘/˘/˘ |
| I never thought the foe had wrought | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| His fury on the helpless creature! | 9 | ·/˘··/˘/˘ |
| But there, poor dog, my faithful friend, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Pay you no heed unto my sorrow; | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| I prithee take this paltry cake,-- | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow! | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choir | 9 | ·····/·/˘ |
| As this old fiddle used to do it? | 9 | ···/˘···· |
| Can vintage come, with this voice dumb | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| That used to bid a welcome to it? | 9 | ·····/˘·· |
| It soothed the weary hours of toil, | 8 | ···/˘/·· |
| It brought forgetfulness to debtors; | 9 | ··˘/˘˘·/˘ |
| Time and again from wretched men | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| It struck oppression's galling fetters. | 9 | ··˘/˘/˘/˘ |
| No man could hear its voice, and hate; | 8 | ········ |
| It stayed the teardrop at its portal; | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| With that dear thing I was a king | 8 | ········ |
| As never yet was monarch mortal! | 9 | ·/˘··/·/˘ |
| Now has the foe--the vandal foe-- | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Struck from my hands their pride and glory; | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| There let it lie! In vengeance, I | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Shall wield another weapon, gory! | 9 | ··˘/˘/˘/˘ |
| And if, O countrymen, I fall, | 8 | ···/˘˘·· |
| Beside our grave let this be spoken: | 9 | ˘//····/˘ |
| "No foe of France shall ever dance | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Above the heart and fiddle, broken!" | 9 | ·····/˘/˘ |
| So come, poor dog, my faithful friend, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| I prithee do not heed my sorrow, | 9 | ·/˘····/˘ |
| But feast to-day while yet you may, | 8 | ········ |
| For we are like to starve to-morrow. | 9 | ·······/˘ |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.