I really once delighted spied
"Clementi Collard" in Cheapside.

Another word,-don't be surprised,
Revered and ragged street Musicians,
You have been only half-baptised,
And each name proper, or improper,
Is not the value of a copper,
Till it has had the due additions,
Husky, Rusky,

Ninuy, Tinny,
Hummel, Bummel,

Bowski, Wowski,

All these are very good selectables;
But none of your plain pudding-and-tames-
Folks that are called the hardest names

Are music's most respectables.

Ev'ry woman, ev'ry man,

Look as foreign as you can,

Don't cut your hair, or wash your skin,

Make ugly faces and begin.

Each Dingy Orpheus gravely hears,
And now to show they understand it!
Miss Crowe her scrannel throttle clears,
And all the rest prepare to band it.
Each scraper ripe for concertante,
Rozins the hair of Rozinante:

Then all sound A, if they know which,
That they may join like birds in June:

Jack Tar alone neglects to tune,
For he's all over concert-pitch.

A little prelude goes before,

Like a knock and ring at music's door Each instrument gives in its name; Then sitting in

They all begin

To play a musical round game.
Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand,
Leads a first fiddle to the band,
A second follows suit;

Anon the ace of Horns comes plump
On the two fiddles with a trump.
Puffindorf plays a flute.

This sort of musical revoke,

The grave bassoon begins to smoke
And in rather grumpy kind
Of tone begins to speak its mind;
The double drum is next to mix,
Playing the Devil on Two Sticks-
Clamour, clamour,

Hammer, hammer,

While now and then a pipe is heard,

Insisting to put in a word,

With all his shrilly best,

So to allow the little minion
Time to deliver his opinion,

They take a few bars rest.

Well, little Pipe begins-with sole
And small voice going through the hole,

Beseeching,

Preaching,

Squealing,

Appealing,

Now as high as he can go,

Now in language rather low,

And having done-begins once more,
Verbatim what he said before.

This twiddling twaddling sets on fire
All the old instrumental ire,
And fiddles for explosion ripe,
Put out the little squeaker's pipe;

This wakes bass viol-- and viol for that,
Seizing on innocent little B flat,
Shakes it like terrier shaking a rat-

They all seem miching malico!

To judge from a ramble unawares,
The drum has had a pitch down stairs;
And the trumpet rash,

The band is becoming most martial of bands,

When just in the middle,

A quakerly fiddle,

Proposes a general shaking of hands!

Quaking,

Shaking,

Quivering,

Shivering,

Long bow-short bow-each bow drawing:
Some like filing,-some like sawing;
At last these agitations cease,

And they all get

The flageolet,

To breathe "a piping time of peace."
Ah, too deceitful charm,

Like light'ning before death,

For Scrapenberg to rest his arm,
And Puffindorf get breath!

Again without remorse or pity,

They play "The Storming of a City." Miss S. herself compos'd and plann'd itWhen lo! at this renew'd attack,

Up jumps a little man in black,—

"When the butt is out, we will drink water: not a drop before."-TEMPEST.

I HAVE Stefano's aversion to Water. I never take any by chance into my mouth, without the proneness of our Tritons and Dolphins of the Fountain,-to spout it forth again. It is, on the palate, as in tubs and hand-basins, egregiously washy. It hath not for me, even what is called "an amiable weakness." For the sake only of quantity, not quality, do I sometimes adulterate my Cogniac or Geneva with the flimsy fluid. Aquarius is not my sign; at the praises heaped on Sir Hugh Myddelton,