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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 thro’ 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 rumble unawares, The drum has had a pitch down stairs ;

And the trumpet rash,

By a violent crash,
Seems splitting somebody's calico !
The viol too groans in deep distress,
As if he suddenly grew sick;
And one rapid fiddle sets off express,-

Hurrying,
Scurrying,
Spattering,
Clattering,

To fetch him a Doctor of Music.
This tumult sets the Haut-boy crying
Beyond the Piano's pacifying,

The cymbal
Gets nimble,
Triangle

Must wrangle,
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 lightning 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 composed and planned it When lo! at this renewed attack. Up jumps a little man in black,

“ The very Devil cannot stand it !”

And with that,
Snatching hat,
(Not his own,)
Off is flown,
Thro’ the door,
In his black,

To come back,
Never, never, never more!

Oh Music! praises thou hast had,

From Dryden and from Pope,
For thy good notes, yet none I hope,

But I, e'er praised the bad,
Yet are not saint and sinner even ?
Miss Strummel on Cecilia's level ?
One drew an angel down from heaven!
The other scared away the Devil! –

A BLOW-UP.

“Here we go up, up, up.” — THE LAY OF THE FIRST

MINSTREL.

NEAR Battle, Mr. Peter Baker

Was Powder-maker, Not Alderman Flower's flour, — the white that

puffs

And primes and loads heads bald, or gray, or

chowder, Figgins and Higgins, Fippins, Filby, Crowder, Not vile apothecary's pounded stuffs, But something blacker, bloodier, and louder,

Gun-powder !

This stuff, as people know, is semper
Eadem ; very hasty in its temper —
Like Honour that resents the gentlest taps
Mere semblances of blows, however slight;
So powder fires, although you only p’rhaps

Strike light.
To make it, therefore, is a ticklish business,
And sometimes gives both head and heart a dizzi.

ness, For as all human flash and fancy minders, Frequenting fights and Powder-works well know, There seldom is a mill without a blow Sometimes upon the grinders. But then — the melancholy phrase to soften, Mr. B.'s mill transpired so very often! And advertised — than all Price Currents

louder, “Fragments look up — there is a rise in Pow

der," So frequently, it caused the neighbours' won

der, — And certain people had the inhumanity To lay it all to Mr. Baker's vanity,

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