I gathered from the howling winds, the frogs and crickets too,
And so from each availing fount, my inspiration drew.
I warbled till the little birds would quit their native bush.
And squat around me on the ground in reverential hush.
I'm a baritone, soprano, and a bass and tenor, too.
I can thrill and slur and frill and whirr and shake you through and through.
I'm a Jews' harp—I'm an organ—I'm a fiddle and a flute.
Every kind of touching sound is found in the coyoot.
Refrain:
I'm a whooping howling wilderness, a sort of Malibran.
With Lind, Labache and Melba mixed and all combined in one.
I'm a grand cathedral organ and a calliope sharp,
I'm a gushing, trembling nightingale, a vast Æolian harp.
Refrain:
I can raise the dead or paint the town, or pierce you like a lance
And all I ask of you to do is to give me half a chance.
Etc., etc., etc.
(Encore verses)
Although I am a miracle, I'm not yet recognized.
Oh, when the world does waken up how highly I'll be prized.
Then managers and vocal stars—and emperors effete
Shall fling their crowns, their money bags, their persons, at my feet.