THE AMATEUR FLUTE-PLAYER
Hear the fluter with his flute,
Silver flute!
Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!
How it demi-semi-quavers,
On the maddened air of night!
And defieth all endeavours
To escape the sound or sight
Of the flute, flute, flute,
With its tootle, tootle, toot,
With reiterated tootings of exasperated toots.
The long-protracted tootings of agonizing toots,
Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute,
And the wheezing and the spittings of its toots.
Should he get that other flute—
Golden flute—
Oh, what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot!
How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise
As he plays
All the days!
How he’ll stop us on our ways
With its praise;
And the people—oh, the people!
That don’t live up in the steeple,
But inhabit Christian parlours
Where he visiteth and plays—
Where he plays, plays, plays
In the cruellest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute,
Who would rather have the earache
Than the music of his flute—
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tooting of his toot—
Of the toot wherein he tooteleth his agonizing toot
Of the fluet, fluit, floot.
Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,
And the tootle-tootle-tooting of his toot.
PRIVATE THEATRICALS—THE MOUSTACHES.
Lady B. (a wicked Marquis). But have you made me fierce enough, Charles?
Charles. Fierce!—ferocious!
