From the gallery's hands to the heads of the pit;
The cat-call so loud, and the whistle so shrill,
Are blended with shouts such as "Bob, where's your 'Bill!'"
At length the musicians have taken their seats,
The leader a lamp with his fiddle-stick beats;
Such silences ensues that the dropping of pins
Might be heard through the house when the playing begins.
The overture's always a musical salad,
A mixture of Polka, Cachuca, and ballad:
If the season has furnished a popular air,