THE CONCERT SEASON.
State of the
Weather.
——
Hocus Pocus
look for
Rain.
Hoaxem
Folksem
Fine
again!
Would you
know the
Wet from
Dry,
"Buy, Buy, Buy."
It's like to
Change when
cats do cry.
That very merry pleasant month of May
Is made for Music, as the poets say;
Whether in shady groves we seek retreat,
Or view the Concert bills in Regent-street,
'Twould seem as though the world was gone a-singing—
Green bowers and Opera boxes all are ringing
With strains of melody that pour upon us,
From thrushes, nightingales, and prima Donnas.
The little birds sing treeos in each nook,
And turn over the leaves for want of book;
While operas, scored for twenty kettle-drums
By Costa, sent to pot our tympanums.
But what harmonious armies now besiege
The ears and pockets of each simple liege:
Jew German minstrels, in Whitechapel born,
Brazen performers on a brazen horn,
And he who, having nothing to put in
His empty mouth, plays tunes upon his chin.
Forsaking soap, my washerwoman's daughters
Practise soprano, "o'er the dark blue waters,"
On drying days supreme their glory shines,
And soars aloft, to C above the lines.
But far and wide they solo, catch, and glee 'em
At Eagle, Conduit, Stingo, Call-an-seum,
Where unknown throngs from unknown regions go,
For gin, tobacco, and "The Chough and Crow,"
And Melodists', where shopmen, quite sublime,
In counter-tenor murder tune and time,
And while for pleasure, perhaps, abroad they roam,
A little concert waits for them at home.
"A small Music Party."
I hate all amateurs who play the flute—
All sulky singing ladies who sit mute—
I hate a piece, made up of variations
On tiresome ditties borrow'd from all nations;
I hate, although I love a cheerful song,
To be obliged to listen all night long.
