  Do re mi fa sol la si do, Do si la sol fa mi re do. Come, begin and follow me, ’Tis down upon the board, you see; Young ladies turn your heads this way, Look on the board, the board, I say! PUPILS. Do mi re fa sol si la do,— MASTER. Stop! now is that the way you’d go? Where are your eyes and ears to-night? Cannot you sing two notes aright? A SWALLOW ON THE EAVES. What is the matter down below? What dreadful clatter, do you know? SWALLOW’S MATE. It is a singing school, my dear, There’s do re mi, pray don’t you hear? SWALLOW. Is that the way folks learn to sing? I ne’er imagined such a thing. Ah me! why what a time they make! They really make my ear-drums ache; Why, what a dreadful noise they keep— They waked me from a nice sound sleep. MASTER. Beat! beat your time, and mind the board, Was such a discord ever heard? Put up your chestnuts, boys, and beat,— You did not come to school to eat. Come, if you can’t sing do re mi, Follow as I sing one, two, three. BOYS. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,— He! he! he!—eight, nine, ten, ’leven. MASTER. Boys! mind your manners, or go home, And learn them ere again you come. PUPILS. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. MASTER. Why, really, now you’ve sung it straight; Now answer, if you can, and tell, What is the first note in the scale? FIRST BOY. Don’t know,—b’lieve ’tis h or i. MASTER. Shame! I should think the seats would cry, “Shame on you!” FIRST BOY. Well, I know that I Was, am, and will be, number one; And ’tis by that the scale’s begun. MASTER. And now the third? SECOND BOY. The third is mi. FIRST BOY. It is not me then,—He! he! he!— ’Tis you, not me, I’m third to none, I’ll be always number one. MASTER. Take care, boy, how you jest with me; Again, what note is number three? Now do the best that you can do. FIRST BOY. I rather think ’tis w. MASTER. Sirrah! you know, and know full well, There’s no such letter in the scale. The third note is the letter e, And, mind, the syllable is mi. FIRST BOY. Me, is it? Oh, if that be true, Then, I am sure ’tis double you. PUPILS. Ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! he! he! MASTER. Oh, Apollo, pity me!— Young Miss, I’ve not yet heard you sing, Have you a cold, or anything? “Don’t know?” Oh, you feel bashful; boys! Look on your notes, and stop that noise. Do mi sol do, do sol mi do. PUPILS. Do mi sol do, do sol mi do. MASTER. Out of tune is the way we go; I’ll sing, and in Apollo’s name, Now try if you can do the same. SWALLOW. Oh, were it day, and I on wing, I would teach them how to sing; But this is shocking; even twitter, Twit, twit, twit, were surely better. CHORUS OF YOUNG SWALLOWS. Twitter! twitter! twit! twit! twit! Boys and girls have little wit. SWALLOW. Do hear our young ones, how they sing! They find it quite an easy thing. They ne’er beat down, up, hither, thither, And never saw the blackboard, neither. MASTER. And now you have sung one, two, three, Perhaps you’ll say your a b c; Come, say it,—c d e f g,— BOYS. H i j k l m n.— SWALLOWS. Oh, defend us! what a din? How hard they try to learn to sing ’Tis really an amusing thing. MASTER. Enough! enough! you may sing now “Old Hundred” once, then you may go. CHORUS OF SWALLOWS. That’s pretty well, but might be better; Not so good as twitter! twitter! Twitter! twitter! twit! twit! twit! Boys and girls have little wit. |
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