MONSIEUR JULLIEN.
“One!”—crash!
“Two!”—clash!
“Three!”—dash!
“Four!”—smash!
Diminuendo,
Now crescendo:—
Thus play the furious band,
Led by the kid-gloved hand
Of Jullien—that Napoleon of quadrille,
Of Piccolo-nians shrillest of the shrill;
Perspiring raver
Over a semi-quaver;
Who tunes his pipes so well, he’ll tell you that
The natural key of Johnny Bull’s—A flat.
Demon of discord, with mustaches cloven—
Arch impudent improver of Beethoven—
Tricksy professor of charlatanerie—
Inventor of musical artillery—
Barbarous rain and thunder maker—
Unconscionable money taker—
Travelling about both near and far,
Toll to exact at every bar—
What brings thee here again,
To desecrate old Drury’s fane?
Egregious attitudiniser!
Antic fifer! com’st to advise her
’Gainst intellect and sense to close her walls?
To raze her benches,
That Gallic wenches
Might play their brazen antics at masked balls?
Ci-devant waiter
Of a quarante-sous traiteur,
Why did you leave your stew-pans and meat-oven,
To make a fricassee of the great Beet-hoven?
And whilst your piccolos unceasing squeak on,
Saucily serve Mozart with sauce-piquant;
Mawkishly cast your eyes to the cerulean—
Turn Matthew Locke to potage à la julienne!
Go! go! sir, do,
Back to the rue,
Where lately you
Waited upon each hungry feeder,
Playing the garçon, not the leader.
Pray, put your hat on,
Coupez votre bâton.
Bah
Va!!