When the sun is hot and growing hotter,And the pond is dry as the ink on a blotter,When dust on the lilac leaves is showing.And the grass is hay before the mowing,Then up where the orchard leaves are brittle,Comes the scrape of a violin sharp and little, Zeek, Zeek, Creak, creak,Sweet is the heat of the midsummer's cheek.
When everything glares excepting the pine-trees.And mercury stands tip-toe in the ninetiesWhen even the grasshoppers, tree-toads and cricketsAre gasping for breath in the meadows and thickets,Then he tucks his fiddle beneath his green chin.And screek, screek, goes the shrill violin. Zeek, Zeek, Creak, creak,Sweet is the heat of the weather I seek.
Dear little fiddler, oh, how I wonderWhat you creep into or what you crawl underWhen the cold rain comes. Small summer-lover.Where is your refuge and what is your cover?Play once again now the chill days begin.Weak, weak, goes the shrill violin. Zeek, Zeek, Creak, creak,Music is weak as the days grow bleak.
