  A Cantabile on Music, Art and Law Ho! there, pumps and castanets for three, We would dance a brief measure. O YOU will wonder why we're here,And wish that we were far, By wig, and gown, it doth appear, We're members of the bar, And tho' we are, we say to you, We all of us opine, That we may justly claim our due, In an artistic line. We are the type of one, you know, As well as we can tell, He is a burly splendid beau, A stately howling swell!— A signor of the lyric stage, An operatic Don,— And by similitude, we'll wage That he, and we are one! 'Tis true, tho' he is mostly stout, We're nearly always thin, But if you turn us inside out, We're stouter men within. For he is all a puff, and smoke, A sound that dies away; But we are they who crack a joke, That lasts for many a day. He has his crotchets; we do harp, On clients, this, and that, He has his sharps, and we are sharp, His flats, and they are flat; He blows away his notes, but we, Are shrewder men by far, The notes we get professionly, We stick them to the Bar! His quavers, they are nothing to The rallantando thrills, That shake our clients, when we screw The rosin on their bills. They often simulate, as deaf, When we do charge a case, Our time is on the treble cleff, And their's is on the base. We make a loud fortissimo, When pleading in the wrong, And often pianissimo, When we should put it strong, But still we pull our fees the same, Tho' suits may not be won, And by our tongue, we conquer fame, Like that conceited Don. And to the jury, we do plaint, Upon a mauling stick, And from our pallets, clap the paint, Around their craniums thick, We mould them from their purpose dense, Like hods of plastic wax, And sculp into their common sense, And then climb down their backs! Our song is done, for we are brief, And we will sing no more,— And to my own intense relief, I thought they'd take the door, But no! they did not go, and each, Put forth his kidded fist, "While we've been trying thus to teach, Our fees we almost missed! Remember this is Christmas eve, Three Chrismas waits we be, The more the reason you should give, Our consultation fee. We have our instruments, and they Are of the parchment tough, With which we play, while men do pay, We wot we've said enough. And wherefore, and whereas for this, Aforesaid, told to thee, Moreover, we must have, we wis, Our consultation fee. Five guineas unto each of us, Refreshers each, a pound,"— I rose to kick them into bruss, They bolted through the ground! My future suppers, must be free Of nightmare risk; the cause Of that cantabile of glee, On music, art, and laws; Was merely this, that I did run, The danger of such rig, By feeding on a goose, they hatched, Inside a lawyer's wig. illustration |
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