And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me!
O, well for the fishmonger's boy
That he shrieks his two notes above A.!
O, well for the tailor's son
That he soars in the old, old way!
And the twelve-year chaps go on
Up the gamut steady and shrill;
But, O, for the creak of a larynx cracked,
And a glottis that won't keep still!