Miss Strummel issues an invite,
For music, and turn-out to-night
In honor of Cecilia's session;
But ere you go, one moment stop,
And with all kindness let me drop
A hint to you and your profession.
Imprimis then: Pray keep within

The bounds to which your skill was born;
Let the one-handed let alone Trombone,
Don't Rheumatiz! seize the violin,

Or Ashmy snatch the horn!

Don't ever to such rows give birth,

As if you had no end on earth

Except to "wake the lyre;

Don't "strike the harp,” pray never do,
Till others long to strike it too,
Perpetual harping's apt to tire;

OI have heard such flat-and sharpers,

I've blest the head

Of good King Ned,

For scragging all those old Welsh Harpers!

Pray, never, ere each tuneful doing,

Take a prodigious deal of wooing;

And then sit down to thrum the strain
As if you'd never rise again

The least Cecilia-like of things;
Remember that the Saint has wings.
I've known Miss Strummel pause an hour,
Ere she could "Pluck the Fairest Flower,"
Yet without hesitation, she

Plunged next into the "Deep, Deep Sea,"
And when on the keys she does begin,
Such awful torments soon you share,

She really seems like Milton's "Sin,"

Holding the keys of

you know where !

Never tweak people's ears so toughly,
That urchin-like they can't help saying -
"O dear! O dear you call this playing,
But O, it's playing very roughly!"
Oft, in the ecstasy of pain,

I've cursed all instrumental workmen,
Wished Broadwood Thurtelled in a lane,
And Kirke White's fate to every Kirkman
I really once delighted spied
“Clementi Collard" in Cheapside.

Another word don't be surprised,
Revered and ragged street Musicians,
You have been only half-baptized,
And each name proper, or improper,
Is not the value of a copper,
Till it has had the due additions,

Husky, Rusky,

Ninny, Tinny,

Hummel, Bummel,

Bowski, Wowski,

All these are very good selectables;
But none of your plain pudding-and-tames
Folks that are called the hardest names
Are music's most respectables.

Ev'ry woman, ev'ry man,

Look as foreign as you can,

Don't cut your hair, or wash your skin,
Make ugly faces and begin.

Each Dingy Orpheus gravely hears,

And now to show they understand it!

Miss Crow her scrannel throttle clears,
And all the rest prepare to band it.
Each scraper ripe for concertante,
Rozins the hair of Rozinante:

Then all sound A, if they know which,
That they may join like birds in June:
Jack Tar alone neglects to tune,
For he's all over concert-pitch.

A little prelude goes before,

Like a knock and ring at music's door, Each instrument gives in its name; Then sitting in

They all begin

To play a musical round game.
Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand,
Leads a first fiddle to the band,
A second follows suit;

Anon the ace of Horns comes plump
On the two fiddles with a trump;
Puffindorf plays a flute.

This sort of musical revoke,

The grave bassoon begins to smoke,
And in rather grumpy kind

Of tone begins to speak its mind;
The double drum is next to mix,

Playing the Devil on Two Sticks

Clamor, clamor,

Hammer, hammer,

While now and then a pipe is heard,

Insisting to put in a word

With all his shrilly best; So to allow the little minion Time to deliver his opinion,

They take a few bars rest.

Well, little Pipe begins - with sole
And small voice going thro' the hole,
Beseeching,

Preaching,

Squealing,

Appealing,

Now as high as he can go,

Now in language rather low,

And having done - begins once more,
Verbatim what he said before.

This twiddling-twaddling sets on fire
All the old instrumental ire,
And fiddles, for explosion ripe,

Put out the little squeaker's pipe ;

This wakes bass viol- and viol for that
Seizing on innocent little B flat,
Shakes it like terrier shaking a rat
They all seem miching malico!

To judge from a rumble unawares,
The drum has had a pitch down stairs;
And the trumpet rash,

By a violent crash,

Seems splitting somebody's calico!
The viol too groans in deep distress,
As if he suddenly grew sick;

And one rapid fiddle sets off express

Hurrying,

Scurrying,

Spattering,

Clattering,

To fetch him a Doctor of Music.

This tumult sets the Haut-boy crying Beyond the Piano's pacifying,

The cymbal

Gets nimble,
Triangle

Must wrangle,

The band is becoming most martial of bands, When just in the middle,

At last these agitations cease,

And they all get

The flageolet,

To breathe "a piping time of peace."

Ah, too deceitful charm, Like lightning before death, For Scrapenberg to rest his arm,

And Puffindorf get breath!

Again without remorse or pity,
They play "The Storming of a City."
Miss S. herself composed and planned it
When lo at this renewed attack,

Up jumps a little man in black

"The very Devil cannot stand it! And with that,

Snatching hat,

(Not his own,)

Off is flown,

Thro' the door,