“Come,” said the talkative Man of the Pack, “Before I put my box on my back, For this elegant, useful Conductor of Sound, Come--suppose we call it a pound! Only a pound! it’s only the price Of hearing a Concert once or twice, It’s only the fee You might give Mr. C. And after all not hear his advice, But common prudence would bid you stump it; For, not to enlarge, It’s the regular charge At a Fancy Fair for a penny trumpet. Lord! what’s a pound to the blessing of hearing! (“A pound’s a pound,” said Dame Eleanor Spearing.) “Try it again! no harm in trying! A pound’s a pound there’s no denying; But think what thousands and thousands of pounds We pay for nothing but hearing sounds: Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law, Parliamentary jabber and jaw, Pious cant and moral saw, Hocus-pocus, and Nong-tong-paw, And empty sounds not worth a straw; Why it costs a guinea, as I’m a sinner, To hear the sounds at a Public Dinner! One pound one thrown into the puddle, To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle! Not to forget the sounds we buy From those who sell their sounds so high, That, unless the Managers pitch it strong, To get a Signora to warble a song, You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker’s prong! “It’s not the thing for me--I know it, To crack my own Trumpet up and blow it; But it is the best, and time will show it. There was Mrs. F. So very deaf, That she might have worn a percussion-cap, And been knock’d on the head without hearing it snap, Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day She heard from her husband at Botany Bay! Come--eighteen shillings--that’s very low, You’ll save the money as shillings go, And I never knew so bad a lot, By hearing whether they ring or not! “Eighteen shillings! it’s worth the price, Supposing you’re delicate-minded and nice, To have the medical man of your choice, Instead of the one with the strongest voice-- Who comes and asks you, how’s your liver, And where you ache, and whether you shiver, And as to your nerves, so apt to quiver, As if he was hailing a boat on the river! And then, with a shout, like Pat in a riot, Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet! “Or a tradesman comes--as tradesmen will-- Short and crusty about his bill, Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner, And because you’re deaf and unable to pay, Shouts whatever he has to say, In a vulgar voice, that goes over the way, Down the street and round the corner! Come--speak your mind--it’s ‘No or Yes.’” (“I’ve half a mind,” said Dame Eleanor S.)