A PROMENADE CONCERT.
Harper and Beau-man, and Platt and Cooke,
I bring you into this comical book;
Just as I've seen you blowing so hard,
At your own original Strand Prom'nade!
Harper, you're no harper at all;
A harper sings as he rattles his strings;
You don't meddle with any such things:
Your strings are your lungs, with their brazen tongues;
If men don't like your play—they may lump it;
But you beat, you know, the world at a blow,
And it can't play a trick but you're sure to trump-it!
Beau-man! Bowman! I tell you what,
If you are a bowman I'll be shot,
From a narrow chest you do not sigh;
No quiver have you, and no big bull's eye;
Yet with your long bassoon so deep,
Through passages many you're heard to sweep:
Some of them light, and some of them dark,
And, whatever their measure, you hit your mark.
Platt! Platt! I can't stand that—
To call you Platt is both rude and raw,
Just as if you were a man of straw,
Or a twister of hair, or a man at a hell,
Playing the part of a Bonnetter well.
No, no; that is no go;
The public never will let it be so:
You are a navigator born,
And all your life will be rounding Cape Horn;
Your sails will be full of fair wind to the last,
And there's no one more perfectly used to the blast!
Cooke! Cooke! you comical elf,
You never dress'd anything but yourself;
You are no Cook, sir, although, by your fun,
I've known some few people most thoroughly done;
You are "first hautboy," a tried and a true,
And what pleasant hours I owe, boy, to you!
Low note.
High note.
Sharp.
Flat.
A flourish of Trumpets.
OCTOBER—"A Drive in Drury lane."