  O LADY next door, could your glance on me fall, There are times when my lot you would pity, And shut the piano that stands by the wall, And spare me your favourite ditty. That music hath charms I’m the last to deny, But music from eight to eleven Is apt the weak nerves of a poet to try, And to hasten his journey to heaven. In vain in my study on work I’ve in hand I endeavour to fix my attention— That moment you sit yourself down to your “grand,” And I use a nice word I won’t mention. O lady, I know you are gentle and fair, And I grant that you play very nicely; But if you are anxious my reason to spare, Don’t start, ma’am, at eight so precisely. I wait for that moment, each nerve on the strain— I tremble with wild agitation; A thousand sharp needles seem pricking my brain And I’m bathed in a cold perspiration. For I know you’ll commence on the last stroke of eight To perform all the morceaux that you know, From “ Dorothy,” “Doris,” and “Faust up to Date,” From Mendelssohn, Mozart, and Gounod. O lady next door, could your glance but once fall On the eye in which madness is lurking, You would move your piano away from the wall, And you’d play when the Bard wasn’t working. |
|
