I suggested “Three Bob” as more suitable to the metre, which requires a monosyllable at the end of the fourth line; but the amendment was lost; like the well-meant suggestion of Fitz James, it “added but fuel to his hate”; I was told (in effect) that “Llwyn On” should be sung _dolce, cantabile, con molta tenerezza_; and the children sang it _staccato, alla marcia, giocoso_. I fear that school got a poor report. This unhallowed wedding of trivial verse to immortal melody often disturbed even my placid temper. I remember in one school, after listening for some time to some moral sentiments sung to a tune that haunted me with memories of my youth, I recovered the “Lost Chord,” and enquired of the Lady of the Manor, who (_suspendens omnia naso_) was keeping an eye on my movements, whether she recognized the air. She failed to do so, and I had the pleasure of informing her that it was “Villikins and Dinah,” a tune which, about the time of the Crimean War, divided popularity with “_Partant pour la Syrie_,” and preceded “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter.” How did it go fifty years since? “As Villikins was a vallikin in his garden around, He saw his fair Dinah lay dead on the ground; A cup of cold poison lay close by her side, And a billet-dow wot said as how ’twas of poison she died.” Little did I think to meet Dinah again in a Public Elementary School. The Lady of the Manor sniffed scornfully: probably the mistress heard of it next day. I am sorry I did not ask for a copy of the amended words. In another school I was cheered by the sound of “Nelly Bly,” a nigger song (shall we say negro melody?) of the Early Carolina period, say 1858-9. There I did ask for a copy of the words, and here they are: “In Asia and in Africa The elephant is found: He larger is than any beast That walks upon the ground: When tame he is gentle and mild, And does what he’s desired, But if he’s mocked or treated ill, With anger he is fired.” I forget the rest, but this is genuine. There should have been a chorus of Hi Jumbo, Ho Jumbo; but it was before the days of the popular beast. In an old Blue Book, more than thirty years ago, I read a lamentation of an Inspector in this district that he had heard “A Southerly Wind” to an extent that would have sickened a Cheshire fox-hunter, and “The Neat Little Clock” till he could wish that time were no more. The latter was a drivelling piece of morality sung to the beautiful old tune of “The Woodpecker”: it lasted well into my epoch, but it seems to be extinct now.