A fiddler from Goa, how does he keep about fiddling? How does he keep about frolicking? Let us see. What is the mazak that he does! How is the joyful spirit of his! The song of Goa, he sings, he regales with. A pre-independence period poet, Furtado is light and gay. A singer of heart, he sings it from his within. How beautiful is his pidgin-Indian English! Through the half-said statements, he says it all, carries it all through the verse-lines so light and entertaining.

The Goan fiddler asks the children to come to him and hear him singing the song. From a strange country is he, the old fiddler, he will share the laughingstock that he projects to be. A ballad-singer, he will sing about the donkey-rider, the ayah and the little girl. A storyteller in verse with so much of mazak, mirth, gaiety and blithe spirit in his bag, he takes us to stables and horsekeepers and horse-riding of the common folks.

Who is dearer; the ayah or the mother? The baby keeps it mum and the fiddler goes saying, juggling with. Why to fear him? He is not so fearsome; he is but a fiddler. Perhaps the ayah and that is good. Praise you the ayah too. After that he takes her to the mother who is standing in a good dress. But the baby keeps seeing, says nothing and it becomes so scenic like the piper of Hamelin. There is none so grand as the mum. Again, the talk shifts from the baby to the boy, to the Major Saheb to the Commander-in-chief. Who is whose son? You do not know the Major Saheb, how can he regale? But finally forgetting all that, let us come and dance, is the motto. Who is who? Let it be so till then. It will be later decided. From Goa to Poona comes he down, telling of majors and colonels and commanders-in-chief and the impact of the words.

The comic spirit is praiseworthy, the way he takes the story with his flirtations and the flicks of the wrist.

Come, dear little children,
Come and list to me,
List to the old fiddler
Fro the s range countree.

Baba riding the donkey,
Little baby with ayah,
Come, I’ll play little monkey
Or the great Ali Baba.

Tell me first, little baby—
Tell and have no fear---
Love you ayah or mummy?
Ayah!-- quite right, my dear.

Now then read me this riddle---
“I shall riddle you first.
You and your cracked fiddle,
Major saib make you burst

“None so grand as mummy —
See her dressed for a ball'
Isn’t she, baby darlin "?
Answers not at all.

“She’s bewitched, like the children 
Of old Hamelin town,
And this fiddler’s the piper,
Now to Poona come down ” —

Smart boy. Master Bobby—'
Ayah, whose son, you ken"?
Major Snobby’s?— dear me'
Bobby IS Snobby then?

Future Lord Command’r-
Chief, Bobby — mi hty clear,
Tell the mighty Major,
Will be lad to hear.

Come now, little children,
Hear me play the tune
Every man and maiden 
Sets a-dancin soon.