THE REVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.

I am no skilful vocalist;

I can't control my mezza gola;

I have but an indifferent fist

(Or foot) upon the Pianola.

But there are instruments, I own,

That fire me with a fond ambition

To master for their names alone

Apart from their august tradition.

They are the Fipple-Flute, a word

Suggestive of seraphic screeches;

The Poliphant comes next, and third

The Humstrum—aren't they perfect peaches?

About their tone I cannot say

Much that would carry clear conviction,

For, till I read of them to-day,

I knew them not in fact or fiction.

As yet I am, alas! without

Instruction in the art of fippling,

Though something may be found about

It in the works of Lear or Kipling.

And possibly I may unearth

In Lecky or in Laurence Oliphant

Some facts to remedy my dearth

Of knowledge bearing on the Poliphant.

But, now their pictures I have seen

In Galpin's learned dissertation,

So far as in me lies I mean

To bring about their restoration.

Yet since I cannot learn all three

And time is ever onward humming,

My few remaining years shall be

Devoted wholly to humstrumming.

That, when my bones to rest are laid,

Upon my tomb it may be written:

"He was the very last who played

Upon the Humstrum in Great Britain."