The workshop has been quiet now for nigh-on eighty years
it's been that long since loving hands brought music forth from wood in here
golden-red and caked with rosin dust stands his life's work on the shelf
old sam who always heard, "you should be building something else!"
A carriage-maker was his trade and he could do it fairly well
but whether it was timely done happened as his moods they rose and fell
he'd stop with half the wheeling done and to his finer tools he'd turn
to cut and shape and coax the wood to sing the song he heard
put your hands to the wood
touch the music put there by the summer sun and wind
the rhythms of the rain, locked within the rings
and let your fingers find the music in the wood
with the shop knee-deep in shavings and a carriage scarce begun
his wife would find old sam at work on a fiddle that was nearly done
"oh, sam!", she cried, "will i have to pay the mortgage by myself?
we don't need one more violin, you should be building something else!"
So he'd turn back to his trade once more
until his kids came home
and asked him to go walking and to the forest they would go
"when you know each tree and flower," said sam
"and the song of every bird, i'll build you each a fiddle
and we'll bring music from the wood"
Old sam was no provider; his few carriages are gone
but the fiddles made for naught but love
preserve the wood and still sing its song
and while some men heard the call to gain a carriage-builder's wealth
another voice told sam, "you should be building something else!"