But come, ye Songsters, over-ripe, That into “childish trebles break!” And bring, Miss Winter, bring the pipe That cannot sing without a shake! Nay, come, ye Spinsters all, that spin A slender thread of ancient voice, Old notes that almost seem call’d in; At such as you we _shall_ rejoice! 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!” [Illustration: A RACE TO BE FIRST FIDDLE.] A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT. _Squampash Flatts, 9th November, 1827._ DEAR BROTHER, Here we are, thank Providence, safe and well, and in the finest country you ever saw. At this moment I have before me the sublime expanse of Squampash Flatts--the majestic Mudiboo winding through the midst--with the magnificent range of the Squab mountains in the distance. But the prospect is impossible to describe in a letter! I might as well attempt a Panorama in a pill-box!