Each Dingy Orpheus gravely hears, And now to show they understand it! Miss Crowe her scrannel throttle clears. And all the rest prepare to band it. Each scraper ripe for concertante, Rozins the hair of Rozinante: Then all sound A, if they know which, That they may join like birds in June: Jack Tar alone neglects to tune, For he’s all over concert-pitch. A little prelude goes before, Like a knock and ring at music’s door Each instrument gives in its name; Then sitting in They all begin To play a musical round game. Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand, Leads a first fiddle to the band, A second follows suit; Anon the ace of Horns comes plump On the two fiddles with a trump. Puffindorf plays a flute. This sort of musical revoke, The grave bassoon begins to smoke And in rather grumpy kind Of tone begins to speak its mind; The double drum is next to mix, Playing the Devil on Two Sticks-- Clamour, clamour, Hammer, hammer, While now and then a pipe is heard, Insisting to put in a word, With all his shrilly best, So to allow the little minion Time to deliver his opinion, They take a few bars rest. Well, little Pipe begins--with sole And small voice going through the _hole_, Beseeching, Preaching, Squealing, Appealing, Now as high as he can go, Now in language rather low, And having done--begins once more, Verbatim what he said before. This twiddling twaddling sets on fire All the old instrumental ire, And fiddles for explosion ripe, Put out the little squeaker’s pipe; This wakes bass viol--and viol for that, Seizing on innocent little B flat, Shakes it like terrier shaking a rat-- They all seem miching malico! To judge from a ramble unawares, The drum has had a pitch down stairs; And the trumpet rash, By a violent crash, Seems splitting somebody’s calico! The viol too groans in deep distress, As if he suddenly grew sick; And one rapid fiddle sets off express,-- Hurrying, Scurrying, Spattering, Clattering, To fetch him a Doctor of Music. This tumult sets the Haut-boy crying Beyond the Piano’s pacifying, The cymbal Gets nimble, Triangle Must wrangle, The band is becoming most martial of bands, When just in the middle, A quakerly fiddle, Proposes a general shaking of hands! Quaking, Shaking, Quivering, Shivering, Long bow--short bow--each bow drawing: Some like filing,--some like sawing; At last these agitations cease, And they all get