MY FIDDLE IS MY SWEETHEART
(Harry Hunter, words; G. H. Chirgwin, Music)

1. My fiddle is my sweetheart and I'm her faithful beau.
I take her to my bosom, because I love her so.
I clasp her gently round her neck. Her vocal chords [sic] I press.
I ask her if she loves me, and she answers, "Yes, yes, yes!"
She'll sing at ev'ry season, December or in June,
But must have rosin (reason) or will not sing in tune.
It's not until I coax her well that she'll reveal her charms,
But she will sing her sweetest song when once she's in my arms.

CHORUS 1: My fiddle is my sweetheart and I'm her faithful beau.
I take her to my bosom, because I love her so.

2. She always is harmonic. She never flirts or winks,
And though she takes a tonic, she never eats or drinks.
Her stomjack's always empty but she never seems to care.
While she can get some scrapings, she will live upon the air.
She'll answer ev'ry question, she'll instantly reply,
And at the least suggestion, she'll laugh or she will cry.
She'll grunt or groan, and sigh or moan, as I wish her to do,
And best of all, won't speak at all, unless she's spoken to.

CHORUS 2: So, ladies, there's a wonder, wonderful but true—
A damsel who won't speak at all, unless she's spoken to.


Words, Harry Hunter. Music, G. H. Chirgwin.
London: Francis, Day & Hunter, 1896.
From Songs of the British Music Hall by Peter Davison (New York: Oak Publications, 1971), pages 118-119: