“I wish those fellows would sing out,” said the short scholar; “I can’t make out more than a word or two.”
“You wouldn’t be any the wiser if you could,” said the other; “we have ceased to be a singing nation. The people have lost the good old ballads, and have got nothing in their place.”
“How do you know?” said the short scholar; “I should like to hear for myself, at any rate.”
“What sort of ballads do you mean, Sir?” said I to the long scholar.
“Why, those in the Robin Hood Garland, for instance,” said he. “Songs written for the people, about their heroes, and, I believe, by the people. There’s nothing of the sort now.”
“What do you say to ‘There’s a Good Time Coming’?” asked the short scholar.
“Well, it’s the best of them, I believe,” said the other; “but you know it was written by Mackay, an LL.D. Besides, it’s essentially a town song.”
“It’s a tip-top one, at any rate,” said the short scholar; “I wish I could write such another.”
“What I say, is, that the popular songs now are written by litterateurs in London, Is there any life or go in ‘Woodman spare that Tree,’ or ‘The Old Arm-Chair’? and they are better than the slip-slop sentimental stuff most in vogue.”
“What a discontented old bird you are!” said the short scholar; “you’re never pleased with any product of this enlightened century.”