Too oft there grows a painful thorn the floweret's stalk upon:
Behind each cupboard's gilded doors there lurks a Skeleton:
The crumpled roseleaf mocks repose, beneath the bed of down:
In proof of which attend the tale of Bach Beethoven Brown.

Beethoven Brown could play and sing before he learnt to crawl:
Piano, bones, or ophicleide—he played upon them all!
Some talk of Paderewski, or of Dr Joachim—
These artists meritorious are, but can't compare with him.

No faults or errors technical his Symphonies deface:
He calculates in counterpoint, he thinks in thoroughbass:
Composers of celebrity—musicians of renown—
Confess that they're inferior far to Bach Beethoven Brown.

As conquerors, their triumphs won, new fields before them see,
So Mr Brown resolved to have a Musical Degree:
Some say that it the title was and others say the gown
That captive took the soaring soul of Bach Beethoven Brown.

But ah! our Statues grovelling command their candidates
To satisfy examiners in Smalls, and Mods., and Greats,
To learn those verbs irregular which men of taste abhor,
Before you can a Doctor be or e'en a Bachelor!

O mores! and O tempora! can pedantry compel
Musicians who write choruses to construe them as well?
Is this (I ask) the way to deal with genius great and high?
Why fetter it with Latin Prose? and Echo answers "Why?"

Beethoven Brown is famous still, though ignorant of Greek,
He writes cantatas every month and anthems once a week:
And still in every capital and each provincial town
Piano organs play the tunes of Bach Beethoven Brown;

Earls, Viscounts, Dukes, and R-y-lties his music throng to hear:
Already he's a Baronet, and soon he'll be a Peer:
And—thrice a year this awful news a nation's heart appals,
That great Sir Bach Beethoven Brown is ploughed again in Smalls!