In music there’s a medium, you know; Don’t sing too high, nor sink too low. If in a house tumultuous rows arise, Music to drown the noise the means supplies; Or when the housemaid, pressed with cares, To yonder public-house repairs, Some gallant soldier, fired by music’s sound Will order pints of half-and-half all round. John the footman nods his head, Swears he’ll not go home to bed; In his arms a partner takes, As some courteous speech he makes; And suddenly the joyous pair engage In giddy Waltz or Polka, now the rage. But when the violin puts forth its charms, How the sweet music every bosom warms: So when the dilettante dared the squeeze, To hear of Jenny Lind the opening strain, And in the rush serenely sees His best coat torn in twain, Transported simpletons stood round, And men grew spooneys at the sound, Roaring with all their wind; Each one his power of lung displayed In bawling to the Swedish Maid While cheers from box to pit resound For Lind, for Lind, for Lind! But when through those mysterious bounds Where the policeman goes his rounds, The poet had by chance been led Mid the coal-hole, festive shed, What sounds were heard, What scenes appeared, How horrible the din! Toasted cheese If you please. Waiter――stop! Mutton-chop. Hollo! Jones, Devilled bones; And cries for rum or gin! But hark! the chairman near the fire Strikes on the table, to require Strict silence for a song. Thy tongue, O waiter, now keep still; Bring neither glass, nor go, nor gill; The pause will not be long. The guests are mute as if upon their beds; Their hair uncurl’d hangs from their listening heads. By the verses as they flow, By their meaning nothing though, Full of tropes and flowers; By those lofty rhymes that dwell In the mind of Bunn[43] so well, Like love in Paphian bowers. By the lines that he has made, Working at the poet’s trade―― By the “marble halls” so smart, By “other lips” and “Woman’s heart,” True poetry at once restore, restore, Or don’t let Bunn, at least, write any more! But soon, too soon, poor music shuts her eyes; Again she falls――again she dies, she dies. How will she now once more attempt to thrive? Ah! Jullien[44] comes to keep her still alive. Now with his British Army Quadrille, so bright and balmy, Or with four bands meeting, Two men a large drum beating, He gives the tone Of dying groan, Or soldier’s moan, When at his post His life is in the battle lost. With five bands surrounded, Is Jullien confounded? No! onwards he goes, And his arms about he throws. See: wild as a wild duck the bâton he plies; Ah! down in the chair he drops, closing his eyes. My eyes! He dies!