Just as I've seen you blowing so hard,
At your own original Strand Prom'nade!
Harper, you're no harper at all;
A harper sings as he rattles his strings;
You don't meddle with any such things:
Your strings are your lungs, with their brazen tongues;
If men don't like your play—they may lump it;
But you beat, you know, the world at a blow,
And it can't play a trick but you're sure to trump-it!
Beau-man! Bowman! I tell you what,