The Mad Fiddler Of The North Poem by David Welch

In the year of 1880,
in Watertown, northern New York,
a man walked into an almshouse,
looked no different from other poor.

The man's dress was quite slovenly,
he was clad in rough leather boots,
wore flannel strips around his neck,
and his hands were bandaged up too.

He was half-way through his thirties,
and somehow, within the next year,
the man's health would slowly decline,
until his final end appeared.

Most would say he was just some tramp,
many wandered the north woods then,
except this man may just have been
the best ever with a violin.

He went by the name Nick Goodall,
born back in 1849,
most say that he came from England,
thought the details are hard to find.

His father was a violinist,
possessed of a workmanlike skill,
but when he saw how his son played
subjected him to countless drills.

Like Mozart's dad, long before him,
Nick's father put him on display,
some say that he toured through Europe
when only at the age of eight.

Some say that his father beat him,
made his childhood unhappy,
but it's known they did cross the pond
at least by the 1860s.

Nick's father settled in D.C.,
word is Lincoln heard young Nick bow,
that his father played for Ford's Theater,
when Lincoln was laid low.

They say Nick was there that dark night,
and what he saw drove him insane,
that Nick was sent to asylums,
was said to be ‘soft' in the brain.

Some say his father killed himself,
that the man was pretty mad too,
others that he abandoned Nick,
that fate seems more likely the truth.

Whatever happened, what is known
is that young Nick Goodall was crazed,
but that when he took out his fiddle
all who listened were quite amazed.

He was known as a wanderer,
a dirty, homeless vagabond,
northern New York were his stomping grounds,
with his fiddle he went along.

He liked to play at the taverns,
and also at local hotels,
proprietors fed and housed him
because they knew Mad Nick drew well.

It's hard to explain it in words,
and recording did not exist,
but people heard Nick play the stings
and found themselves enrapt by this.

They said that he had a beauty
no other man could replicate,
and people would crowd into bars
to hear this mad prodigy play.

He would play Chopin, Listz, and Bach,
Paginini, Berlioz, Brahms;
yet also played popular tunes,
but the things was, he just played on.

Nick didn't much pay attention
to the crowds who came to see him,
he played fiddle in his own world,
to stop before ready was a sin.

His performances went for hours,
even when people drifted off,
he'd kept playing in the tavern
regardless of what others thought.

He would wind down like some old clock,
sometime playing straight through the night,
then just stand up and wander off,
all saw that his mind wasn't right.

This made him quite the wild-card,
no one know what Goodall would do,
sometimes he would go to churches
and play masterful sacred tunes.

But other times he draw the bow
to fun songs like ‘Pop the Weasel, '
the churchgoers would just walk out,
proclaiming it was ‘disgraceful.'

He was known to have crass language,
sometimes swearing at random times,
which undermined Goodall's success,
ruined him in the public's mind.

One time, when in a small city,
booked into a hall that was full,
he played sheer beauty for the crowd,
then cried, 'Christ, ain't that beautiful! '

The crowd, of course, then filed out,
shocked by the man's profane words,
without all of these sullen moods
countless riches would he have earned.

One time, when he was in Malone,
north the Adirondack peaks,
he was meant to play a concert,
the time came, and he was not seen.

So the promoter went looking,
and found Goodall was playing pool,
had to threaten with a horsewhip,
such antics were more than a few.

In Watertown one man threatened
to shoot Nick, drop him down a hole,
because the man refused to play,
often-times Goodall just went cold.

Even one time in Elmira,
where he'd been staying for a bit,
the great musician, Ole Bole,
heard of Nick's skill, wanted to hear it.

Before this virtuosic mind
Nick sat silent, refused to move,
to the point Ole chose to leave,
then Mad Nick started up a tune.

Now Ole Bole played violin,
and made a great living from this,
but even he watched Nick, enrapt,
then said, 'That man is a genius.'

Spurred by this, some promoters tired
to get Nick to play a big stage,
surprisingly Mad Nick agreed,
to Troy, New York they made their way.

They put him in suit and top-hat,
he looked not the tramp anymore,
and Nick drew bow across the strings,
no one knew the beauty in store.

For two hours the people watched,
stunned by the sheer beauty they heard,
the promoter though all was well,
as Nick's bow just flurried and whirled.

But when Nick just kept playing on,
when the fiddler refused to stop,
the people all drifted outside,
and the rest of the tour was lost.

The mad man just kept playing on,
'till only the watchman remained,
this only just convinced people
that poor Nick Goodall was insane.

As the years went by Nick's playing
came less often, as he wandered,
he just became a vagabond,
going to almshouses in winter.

That's how he came to Watertown
in the sad last year of his life,
they say he didn't play at all,
many felt pity at his plight.

There even was a well-dressed man,
white-haired, and getting on in years,
who came looking for Nick Goodall,
and in that sad poorhouse appeared.

They say he took Nick's violin,
and played it so the notes were heard,
said, 'Nick, don't you remember this?
And how we played it together? '

Nick then took up the violin,
and ones more played beautiful airs,
some say the man was his father,
he was never seen again there.

Why Goodall died, nobody knows,
he was given a pauper's grave,
some folk looked at his violin
to understand how well he played.

But they found nothing special there,
the viol was a common kind,
the beauty that he'd drawn from it
was born out of his troubled mind.

After he died they raised money,
for a grave, he had been broke, of course,
in local folklore Nick remains:
The Mad Fiddler of the North.