No thund’ring Thalbergs here shall balk, Or ride your pet _D-cadence_ o’er, But fingers with a little chalk Shall, moderato, keep the score! No Broadwoods here, so full of tone, But Harpsichords assist the strain: No Lincoln’s pipes, we have our own Bird-Organ, built by Tubal-Cain. And welcome! St. Cecilians, now Ye willy-nilly, ex-good fellows, Who will strike up, no matter how, With organs that survive their bellows! And bring, oh bring, your ancient styles In which our elders lov’d to roam, Those flourishes that strayed for miles, Till some good fiddle led them home! Oh come, ye ancient London Cries, When Christmas Carols erst were sung! Come, Nurse, who dron’d the lullabies, “When Music, heavenly Maid, was young!” No matter how the critics treat, What modern sins and faults detect, The Copy-Book shall still repeat, These Concerts must “Command respect!” A REPORT FROM BELOW. “Blow high, blow low.”--SEA SONG. As Mister B. and Mistress B. One night were sitting down to tea, With toast and muffins hot-- They heard a loud and sudden bounce, That made the very china flounce, They could not for a time pronounce If they were safe or shot-- For Memory brought a deed to match, At Deptford done by night-- Before one eye appeared a Patch, In t’other eye a Blight! To be belabour’d out of life, Without some small attempt at strife, Our nature will not grovel; One impulse mov’d both man and dame, He seized the tongs--she did the same, Leaving the ruffian, if he came, The poker and the shovel. Suppose the couple standing so, When rushing footsteps from below Made pulses fast and fervent; And first burst in the frantic cat, All steaming like a brewer’s vat, And then--as white as my cravat-- Poor Mary May, the servant! Lord, how the couple’s teeth did chatter; Master and Mistress both flew at her, “Speak! Fire? or Murder? What’s the matter?” Till Mary, getting breath, Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much To tell before her death:--