Amongst the great inventions of this age,
Which every other century surpasses,
Is one,—just now the rage,—
Called "Singing for all classes,"
That now, alas! have no more ear than asses,
To learn to warble like the birds in June—
In time and tune,
Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!
Whether this grand harmonic scheme
Will ever get beyond a dream,
And tend to British happiness and glory
May be no, and may be yes,
Is more than I pretend to guess—
However here's my story.
In one of those small, quiet streets,
Where business retreats,
To shun the daily bustle and the noise
The shoppy Strand enjoys,
But land, joint-companies, and life-insurance
Find past endurance—
In one of these back streets, to peace so dear,
The other day a ragged wight
Began to sing with all his might,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"
Heard in that quiet place,
Devoted to a still and studious race,
The noise was quite appalling!
To seek a fitting simile, and spin it,
Appropriate to his calling,
His voice had all Lablache's body, in it;
But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,
And was in fact
Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling!
'T was said indeed for want of vocal nous
The stage had banished him when he 'tempted it,
For though his voice completely filled the house,
It also emptied it.
However, there he stools
Vociferous—a ragged don!
And with his iron pipes laid on—
A row to all the neighborhood.
In vain were sashes closed,
And doors against the persevering Stentor;
Though brick and glass, and solid oak opposed,
The intruding voice would enter,
Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,
Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum;
Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools,
Ladies, and masters who attend the schools,
Clerks, agents all provided with their tools,
Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,
With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em—
How it did bore 'em!
Louder and louder still,
The fellow sang with horrible good-will,
Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities,
From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw,
In deeds of law
They had to draw;
With dreadful incongruities
In posting legers, making up accounts,
To large amounts,
Or casting up annuities—
Stunned by that voice so loud and hoarse,
Against whose overwhelming force
No invoice stood a chance, of course!
From room to room, from floor to floor,
From Number One to Twenty-four,
The nuisance bellowed; till all patience lost,
Down came Miss Frost,
Expostulating at her open door—
"Peace, monster, peace!
Where is the new police?
I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,
Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, don't!
You really send my serious thoughts astray,
Do—there's a dear, good man—do, go away."
Says he, "I won't!"
The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,
That sounded like a wooden d—n;
For so some moral people, strictly loth
To swear in words, however up,
Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,
Or through a door-post vent a banging oath,—
In fad, this sort of physical transgression
Is really no more difficult to trace,
Than in a given face
A very bad expression.
However in she went
Leaving the subject of her discontent
To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten;
Who throwing up the sash,
With accents rash,
Thus hailed the most vociferous of men;
"Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant;
I cannot write a sentence—no one can't!
So pack up your trumps,—
And stir your stumps."
Says he "I shan't!"