  I often heave a sigh to think Of poor young A. McDougal, And his disastrous bold attempt To learn to play the bugle (Which, judging from the sad result, Must be, I fancy, difficult). It happened thus: McDougal took His charming young fiancÉe One evening to a "Monday Pop." (Her Christian name was Nancy.) And there they heard—he and this maid,— A solo on the bugle played. Fair Nancy was enraptured, and Said: "Dearest A. McDougal, I'd love you more than ever if You'd learn to play the bugle." McDougal, as a lover should, Remarked, he'd learn it—"if he could." McDougal was deluded A bugle into purchasing (With leather case included), At more than twice its proper price, Because it looked "so very nice." He little thought, poor wretched man, As he this bargain fixed on, How it would wreck his future life. He took it home to Brixton, And, from that hour, with much concern, To play upon it tried to learn. His efforts—so I understand— At first were not successful. His landladies objected—which, Of course, was most distressful; Then neighbours much annoyed him, for They sued him in a court of law. Opprobrium and hooting My efforts greet. I'd better try The common, out at Tooting," Where,—on his bugle-tootling bent,— He most appropriately went. Each evening after business hours He'd practice—'twas his fancy— Till he thought he played well enough To serenade Miss Nancy, Though (this must be well understood) His playing really was not good. He had no ear for music, and Made discords which were racking; While as for time, his sense of that Was quite, entirely, lacking. Still, excellent was his intent As unto Nancy's house he went. "That tune," he thought, "which we first heard, 'Twould doubtless, much engage her, If I performed the self-same piece" ('Twas something in D major), Which, knowing nought of C's and D's, He played in quite a bunch of keys. * * * A voice inquired quite crossly Above his head. "'Tis I, my love," Said A. McDougal, hoarsely. "Then go away; I've never heard," Said Nancy, "noises so absurd." "My playing—don't you like it?" "No; And, till you're more proficient, I will not marry you at all: I've said it,—that's sufficient." A wild note from the bugle rang— A wildly, weirdly, wailing note To set one's blood a-freezing; A compound 'twixt nocturnal cats, And wheels which want a-greasing— |
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