  About the subject of music what can I say? That mystical combination we sing and play? The origin of which none seem to know; For as far back into the past as we can go, From the time that Circe and her maids, In their lonely isle of forests and glades, Their magic spells, in song, upon the sailor wrought, With all his crew, to their abode they brought, To change them to swine from the forms of men; Until wise Ulysses, by some godlike ken, Undid the deed done his men confined in a pen; Or when Orpheus with his lyre in his hand, Held his sway through th’ enchanted land. So ’twould be a waste of valuable time, The history and origin of music to put into rhyme. It seems that it has long over us held sway; Back from the long ago to the present day. But in all times before this day of ours, When men have harnessed th’ unseen powers: It did take the skill of finger tips Or the trill of throat and puckered lips, To wake from vibrations thereby made, The thrilling chant and sweet serenade. But now with pricking pins of steel, Those same vibrations come from turn of wheel, When in dents lightly made on a disc, Which around and around we playfully whisk; The pin points strike in and then out, As the thing is whirled about; And, by magnifying the scratching it makes The picture of the whole sound action it takes; And reproduces the vibrations on our ear, Of an opera or any piece we wish to hear. By the numerous machines by inventors made, The sweet music once by human skill played, Has passed into commerce of daily trade. For a few dollars one can buy, A music maker if he will but try. Although the music thus made is not the real thing; Yet instruments are designed that give it the ring. True music that really stirs the hearts of men That comes from the masters with the pen, Must be by human skill played, As ever behind its dress parade, Stands the soul of the master, flowing with the sound, As it comes to our ears in tones profound, Or tintinnabulations of drum or fife, Calling us to war and its deadly strife; Or those mysterious strains of the violin, In the hands of the artist held in, By his neck, hands, shoulders and chin So none can tell where he stops for fiddle to begin; Both moving together in such perfect time As we sit in rapture, listening to the chime. Will ever the sense of music in man, Having remained since history began, Be obliterated in time to come; And his taste for sounds become numb, By the strain on him these machines make, Hounding him by their grating sleep or wake, By the screeching buzzes they make; With our songs all ground up into rag, Even the stirring ones of the glorious flag, And those sedate hymns sang in church Which ragtime has sought to besmirch. But of all of this let us not complain, Even if we lose our desire for the grand refrain; Maybe some time the genius of the great, Will some better sense create, For its loss fully to compensate.
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