MUSICAL MURMURINGS.
(By our Orchestral Expert.)
The full programme for the season of Promenade Concerts which opened last Saturday is, as usual, a most interesting document, and we are of course glad to see that our gallant Allies are so well represented. But it is the function of the critic to criticise, and we may be permitted to express a mild regret that our native school, though by no means excluded, does not make so good a show as its energy and talents would seem to warrant. Our native composers are especially noticeable for their wide range of themes, for the Celtic and Gaelic glamour which they infuse into their treatment of them, and for their realistic titles. We have drawn up a list of instrumental works which illustrate these characteristics, but which are unfortunately conspicuous by their absence from Sir HENRY WOOD'S scheme. As, however, it is subject to alteration we are not without the hope that some of them may yet be included in the list of works to be heard at the Queen's Hall in the next six weeks.
SYMPHONIC VARIATIONS. "Father's lost his collar-stud." Hans Halfburn.
KELTIC KORONACH. "Wirrasthrue." Seumas Macdthoirbwlch.
FUNERAL MARCH OF A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR. Nelson Wellington.
SIAMESE LULLABY for Sixteen Trombones. Quantock de Banville.
FANTASIA. "Wardour Street." Yokeling Ffoulkes.
MANX MEDITATION for Revolving Orchestra. "Laxey Wheel." Bradda Quellyn.
OVERTURE. "Glasgow Fair." Talisker McUsquebaugh.
CAMBRIAN "SNEEZE" for Full Orchestra. Taliesin Jones.
ORCHESTRA MUSINGS ON IRISH RAILWAY STATIONS. Dermod MacCathmhaoil. (a) Stillorgan. (b) Dundrum. (c) Bray.
BUBBLINGS FROM BUTE. Diarmid Dinwiddie.
DITHYRAMBIC ODE. "The Belles of Barmouth." Ivor Jenkins.
VALSE FANTASTIQUE. "Synthetic Rubber." Marcellus Thom.
CHEMIN DES DAMES.
In silks and satins the ladies went
Where the breezes sighed and the poplars bent,
Taking the air of a Sunday morn
Midst the red of poppies and gold of corn—
Flowery ladies in gold brocades,
With negro pages and serving-maids,
In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan,
With brooch and buckle and flounce and fan,
Patch and powder and trailing scent,
Under the trees the ladies went—
Lovely ladies that gleamed and glowed,
As they took the air on the Ladies' Road.
Boom of thunder and lightning flash—
The torn earth rocks to the barrage crash;
The bullets whine and the bullets sing
From the mad machine-guns chattering;
Black smoke rolling across the mud,
Trenches plastered with flesh and blood—
The blue ranks lock with the ranks of gray,
Stab and stagger and sob and sway;
The living cringe from the shrapnel bursts,
The dying moan of their burning thirsts,
Moan and die in the gulping slough—
Where are the butterfly ladies now?
PATLANDER.
"No persons were injured and no houses were bit by the bombs."—Sunday Pictorial.
But they barked horrid.
