And Kirke White's fate to every Kirkman 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-baptized,
And each name proper, or improper,
Is not the value of a copper,
Till it has had the due additions,

Husky, Rusky,

Ninny, 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 Crow 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.

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!

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 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