The third's a Polish Pianist With big engagements everywhere, A light heart and an iron wrist, And shocks and shoals of yellow hair, And fingers that can trill on sixths and fill beginners with despair. The three musicians stroll along And pluck the ears of ripened corn, Break into odds and ends of song, And mock the woods with Siegfried's horn, And fill the air with Gluck, and fill the tweeded tourist's soul with scorn. The Polish genius lags behind, And, with some poppies in his hand, Picks out the strings and wood and wind Of an imaginary band, Enchanted that for once his men obey his beat and understand. The charming cantatrice reclines And rests a moment where she sees Her château's roof that hotly shines Amid the dusky summer trees, And fans herself, half shuts her eyes, and smoothes the frock about her knees. The gracious boy is at her feet, And weighs his courage with his chance; His fears soon melt in noonday heat. The tourist gives a furious glance, Red as his guide-book grows, moves on, and offers up a prayer for France. AUBREY BEARDSLEY [Illustration] [Illustration: The Three Musicians] [Illustration: The Three Musicians] THE BALLAD OF A BARBER Here is the tale of Carrousel, The barber of Meridian Street. He cut, and coiffed, and shaved so well, That all the world was at his feet. The King, the Queen, and all the Court, To no one else would trust their hair, And reigning belles of every sort Owed their successes to his care. With carriage and with cabriolet Daily Meridian Street was blocked, Like bees about a bright bouquet The beaux about his doorway flocked. Such was his art he could with ease Curl wit into the dullest face; Or to a goddess of old Greece Add a new wonder and a grace. All powders, paints, and subtle dyes, And costliest scents that men distil, And rare pomades, forgot their price And marvelled at his splendid skill. The curling irons in his hand Almost grew quick enough to speak, The razor was a magic wand That understood the softest cheek. Yet with no pride his heart was moved; He was so modest in his ways! His daily task was all he loved, And now and then a little praise. An equal care he would bestow On problems simple or complex; And nobody had seen him show A preference for either sex. How came it then one summer day, Coiffing the daughter of the King, He lengthened out the least delay And loitered in his hairdressing?