But let me get him home, with a good grip of his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a whole bone in his skin!
"Give me old music-let me hear
The songs of days gone by!"-H. F. CHORLEY.
O! COME, all ye who love to hear
An ancient song in ancient taste,
To whom all bygone Music's dear
As verdant spots in Memory's waste!
Its name "The Ancient Concert"
And has not hit the proper clef,
To wit, Old Folks, to sing Old Songs,
To Old Subscribers rather deaf.
Away, then, Hawes! with all your band.
Ye beardless boys, this room desert!
One youthful voice, or youthful hand,
Our concert-pitch would disconcert!
No Bird must join our "vocal throng,"
The present age beheld at font:
Away, then, all ye "Sons of Song,"
Your Fathers are the men we want!
Away, Miss Birch, you're in your prime !
Miss Romer, seek some other door!
Go, Mrs. Shaw! till, counting time,
You count you're nearly fifty-four!
Go, Miss Novello, sadly young!
Go, thou composing Chevalier,
And roam the county towns among,
No Newcome will be welcome here!
Our Concert aims to give at night
The music that has had its day!
So, Rooke, for us you cannot write
Till time has made you Raven gray.
Your score may charm a modern ear,
Nay, ours, when three or fourscore old,
But in this Ancient atmosphere,
Fresh airs like yours would give us cold!
Go, Hawes, and Cawse, and Woodyat, go
Hence, Shirreff, with those native curls,
And Master Coward ought to know
This is no place for boys and girls!
No Massons here we wish to see;
Nor is it Mrs. Seguin's sphere,
And Mrs. B- - Oh! Mrs. B-
Such Bishops are not reverend here!
What! Grisi, bright and beaming thus !
To sing the songs gone gray with age!
No, Grisi, no,--but come to us
And welcome, when you leave the stage!
Off, Ivanhoff!-till weak and harsh !—
Rubini, hence! with all the clan!
But come, Lablache, years hence, Lablache A little shrivelled thin old man.
Go, Mr. Phillips, where you please!
Away, Tom Cooke, and all your batch;
You'd run us out of breath with Glees,
And Catches that we could not catch.
Away, ye Leaders all, who lead
With violins mit modern things;
That cannot sing without a shake!
Nay, come, ye Spinsters all, that spin
A slender thread of ancient voice,
Old notes that almost seem called in;
At such as you we shall rejoice!
No thund'ring Thalbergs here shall baulk,
Or ride your pet D-cadence o'er,
But fingers with a little chalk
Shall, moderato, keep the score!
No Broadwoods here so full of tone,
But Harpsichords assist the strain :
No Lincoln's pipes, we have our own
Bird-Organ, built by Tubal-Cain.
And welcome! St. Cecilians, now
Ye willy-nilly, ex-good fellows,
Who will strike up, no matter how,
With organs that survive their bellows!
And bring, O bring, your ancient styles
In which our elders loved to roam,
Those flourishes that strayed for miles,
Till some good fiddle led them home!
O come, ye ancient London Cries,
When Christmas Carols erst were sung!
Come, Nurse, who droned the lullabies,
"When Music, heavenly Maid, was young!"
No matter how the critics treat,
What modern sins and faults detect,
The Copy-Book shall still repeat,
These Concerts must "Command respect!"
"Blow high, blow low."-SEA SONG.
As Mister B. and Mistress B.
One night were sitting down to tea,
With toast and muffins hot-
They heard a loud and sudden bounce,
That made the very china flounce,
They could not for a time pronounce
If they were safe or shot-
For Memory brought a deed to match
At Deptford done by night-
Before one eye appeared a Patch
In t'other eye a Blight!
To be belaboured out of life,
Without some small attempt at strife,
Our nature will not grovel;
One impulse moved both man and dame,
He seized the tongs-she did the same,
Leaving the ruffian, if he came,
The poker and the shovel.
Suppose the couple standing so,
When rushing footsteps from below
Made pulses fast and fervent,
And first burst in the frantic cat,
All steaming like a brewer's rat,
And then-as white as my cravat-
Poor Mary May, the servant!
Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter,
Master and Mistress both flew at her,
Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the
Upon her tale began to touch
With rapid tongue, full trotting, such
As if she thought she had too much
To tell before her death :-
:-
"We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house, Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs,
And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs;
'Mary,' says she to me, I say '—and there she stops for coughin',
'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin' very often,
But please the pigs,'-for that's her way of swearing in a passion,
'I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin' in this fashion!"
Well, down she takes my master's horn-I mean his horn for loading,
And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding.
Lawk, Mrs. Round! says I, and stares, that quantum is unproper,
I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a
You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff,
But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff.
Well, when the pinch is over- Teach your grandmother to suck
A powder-horn,' says she-Well, says I, I wish you
Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips,
'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside your lips;
Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these;
I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees.
|