This song is so well known to most of my readers, that I can describe his manner of singing it without repeating the whole of the words. He struck the instrument in playing with such violence that it shook his whole body, and produced the following ludicrous effect:
"Some love to ro-o-o-a-me
O'er the dark sea fo-o-ome,
Where the shrill winds whistle fre-e-e;
But a cho-o-sen ba-a-and in a mountain la-a-a-and,
And life in the woo-o-ds for me-e-e."
This performance was drowned in an uproar of laughter, which brought our vocalist to a sudden stop.
"I won't sing another line if you keep up that infernal noise," he roared at the top of his voice. "When a fellow does his best, he expects his audience to appreciate his performance; but I allers he'rd as how the folks at W--- knew nothing about music."
"Oh, do stop," exclaimed an old woman, rising from her seat, and shaking her fist at the unruly company,--"can't yee's; he do sing butiful; and his voice in the winds do sound so natural, I could almost hear them an 'owling. It minds me of old times, it dew."
This voluntary tribute to his genius seemed to console and reassure the singing master, and, stemming with his stentorian voice the torrent of mistimed mirth, he sang his song triumphantly to the end; and the clapping of hands, stamping of feet, and knocking of benches, were truly deafening.