THE LOST CORD. (Words by an Organ-grinder. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.) _Andante Moderato._ Seated one day on the organ Was my monkey, but ill at ease, For his fingers wandered idly, Searching for――what you please. I know not what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming, quite, But I dropped his cord and, quickly, With a bound he was out of sight! With a bound he was out of sight! Then forth he came through a skylight, With some clothes on his outstretched arm; And the way that he sought to wear them Had a touch of infinite charm. While riot and shrieks of sorrow Above, from a plundered wife, Recalled the harmonious echo Of my discordant life. The things perplexed the monkey, He spoilt them piece by piece:―― _Animato._ I trembled away in my silence, In fear of the dread police! _Agitato._ I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one last cord, and pine For him, for the soul of my organ―― That vanished ape of mine! _Grandioso._ It may be my truant monkey Will come with that cord again; It may be he only decamps When he hears the organ-men (_Repeat._) _Judy_, March 3, 1880. ―――― THE LOST VOICE. Seated at Church in the winter I was frozen in every limb, And the village choir shrieked wildly Over a noisy hymn. I do not know what they were singing But while I was watching them Our Curate began his sermon With the sound of a slight “Ahem!” It frightened the female portion Like the storm which succeeds a calm, Both maidens and matrons heard it With a touch of inane alarm. It told them of pain and sorrow, Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife, Bronchitis, and influenza All aimed at our Curate’s life. It linked all perplex’d diseases Into one precious frame; They trembled with rage if a sceptic Attempted to ask its name. They have wrapped him in mustard plasters, Stuffed him with food and wine, They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him With sympathy divine. It may be that other Curates Will preach in that church to them, Will there be every time, Good Heavens! Such fuss for a slight――Ahem! A. H. S. ―――― THE CORRECT CHORD.