Oh! how my heart-strings crack to hear
A boy blow thro' a comb!
Music hath pow'r over shepherd and swain,
As, at eve, when the wood-dove moans,
He softly soothes his soul to repose
With the jew's-harp's tender tones.
Music hath pow'r in the solemn aisles,
A deep and a holy charm:
When the clerk, with a pitch-pipe symphony,
Strikes up the hundredth psalm.