THE MURDER OF A BEETHOVEN SONATA.
(Executed by Miss——)
SUCH a strum was heard—not a single right note,
When to make you play every one worried;
Yet I would not discharge one satirical shot
As to the piano you hurried.
You hurried so quickly, 'twas scarcely right,
I knew not the piece you'd been learning;
But I saw by the flickering candle-light
Your cheeks were with nervousness burning.
No useless music encumbered the rest;
No pieces had any one found you;
But you played it by heart, no doubt doing your best,
Though the people would talk around you.
Dreary and long was the thing you played,
And we listened in suffering sorrow;
And I thought to myself that, if any one stayed,
You'd have finished, no doubt, by the morrow.
Lightly they'll talk of the piece when it's done,
And wonder whoe'er could have made it;
But nothing she'll reck if they let her strum on
At the piece till she's thoroughly played it.
When you'd made but some fifty mistakes, or more,
And no more such torture requiring,
I managed to get to the open door,
And succeeded in quickly retiring.
I've but one thing more in conclusion to say,
Though you no doubt will think it a story;
'Tis this, that no matter wherever you play,
You will get neither money nor glory!
MOZART.