The Emerald Cup

They have, in a fair part of the Emerald Isle, a musical competition, in which people come from all over the land to play for a rare and beautiful prize, the Emerald Cup. It is only awarded to the finest and rarest of talent, and is judged very strictly, and only awarded to those who can play the fiddle with skill and charm.
As it happened, one year, the competition was poor ... the standard was not so great. The judges were sighing with frustration, and the crowd was restless. At last it came to be that there were only three competitors left.
The first of these came forward. He was clad in a Versace suit, with diamonds on his fingers and on his tieclip; his tie itself was a Christian Dior creation. The man carried a finely crafted, crocodile-skin violin case, from the velvet folds of which he carefully drew out a Stradivarius. He stood and faced the crowd, and began to play.
But alas ...
He was no bloody good.

Next to come was a man in a smart business suit, carrying a fine leather violin case. He drew out a very nice violin, crafted on the continent. He turned to face the audience and began to play.
But alas ...
He was no bloody good.

At last, the final player came forward, hesitantly at first. He was a gangly, thin man, in want of good food; his clothes were rags. He clutched to him a rough cardboard box, tied with string; and from that he took a dusty, battered old violin. The strings were knotted; the wood was worn.
The fellow stood to face the audience, his toes poking out of his shoes, his nails blackened and his hands rough. Slowly, he drew the bow across the strings and began to play.

And he was no bloody good, either!