SINCE Bach so well his clavier tuned, since Palestrina wrote his Masses,

Since Modes Ecclesiastical began to puzzle music-classes,

All Anglo-Saxondom has tried, by teaching of its lads and lasses,

The concert-room’s imposing choir—string-orchestra, wood, wind, and brasses.

HallÉ in Free Trade Hall I heard when first I took the music craze on;

Berlin’s “Philharmonie,” which plays the winter through alternate days on,

Richter at Bradford, quite sublime! Pauer and Colonne in the Saison.

Lest I should make the list too short, and show a lack of erudition,

I’d better mention Cowan, who ruled at the Melbourne Exhibition,

Villiers Stanford, Auguste MannÉs, and Thomas, whose keen intuition

Where, thanks to his devoted work, Beethoven found superb rendition.

All these I’ve heard, and others, too—poor Seidl, who has talked with Charon;

Nikisch, whose eager gestures make it difficult to keep your hair on;

Then there’s a chap whose name I’ve lost (I think he wrote “The Rose of Sharon”);

Dozens whose brains the genius own that’s common to the seed of Aaron.

But if good music is the thing your inmost soul would fain get fat on,

The ladies talk the whole show through, and you will certainly be sat on

Each for a seat, and chat away in time with the conductor’s baton.”

Oft that October day I see—delightful month, June’s elder sister;

The splendid Hall was opened, and a poem read by Owen Wister

(So kind the Muse, ’twas plain to see in Philadelphia he had kissed her).

Of fair-clad girls, and panoply of bright new paint without a blister.

Nowhere on this broad earth, I grant, is music played to such perfection;

Even strict Apthorp will admit that false notes are a rare exception;

But what avail such wond’rous play, when to the Hall for friend’s inspection

Or in loud voice the matrons sing the dangers of small-pox infection.

To Mendelssohn’s Scotch Symphony I’ve heard of Johnny’s scarlet fever;

Oft to Wagnerian strains I’ve heard eager dispute of seal and beaver,

As seen on transatlantic boat, from Messrs. Robinson and Cleaver.

Pray do not think that Boston girls all talk such feeble stuff as this is;

To Glazounoff’s inspiring notes they’ll quote from Phillips’s “Ulysses”;

To Massenet’s caressing phrase admire Burne-Jones’s long-necked misses;

And tell, to score of Humperdink, Buddha’s most esoteric blisses.

A concert it is hard to turn into a conversazione,

Except with consequences which would make the softest heart quite stony,

Unless ’tis done in restaurant where foreigners eat macaroni,

While pallid shop-girls misbehave, doth cool the verdant Isle of Coney.

Forgive me if I criticise; I love you none the less, Priscilla,

Talk as you will, I love you still; I’d live with you in flat or villa,

Is certain you would not omit in proper place the French cedilla.