More Hullah-Baloo

Amongst the great inventions of this age,
Which every other century surpasses,
Is one,--just now the rage,--
Called "Singing for all Classes --
That is, for all the British millions,
And billions,
And quadrillions,
Not to name Quintilians,
That now, alas! have no more ear than asses,
To learn to warble like the birds in June,
In time and tune,
Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!

In fact, a sort of plan,
Including gentleman as well as yokel,
Public or private man,
To call out a Militia,--only Vocal
Instead of Local,
And not designed for military follies,
But keeping still within the civil border,
To form with mouths in open order,
And sing in volleys.

Whether this grand harmonic scheme
Will ever get beyond a dream,
And tend to British happiness and glory,
Maybe no, and maybe yes,
Is more than I pretend to guess--
However, here's my story.

In one of those small, quiet streets,
Where business retreats,
To shun the daily bustle and the noise
The shoppy Strand enjoys,
But Law, Joint-Companies, and Life Assurance
Find past endurance--
In one of those back streets, to Peace so dear,
The other day, a ragged wight
Began to sing with all his might,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"

The place was lonely; not a creature stirred
Except some little dingy bird;
Or vagrant cur that sniffed along,
Indifferent to the Son of Song;
No truant errand-boy, or Doctor's lad,
No idle filch or lounging cad,
No Pots encumbered with diurnal beer,
No printer's devil with an author's proof,
Or housemaid on an errand far aloof,
Lingered the tattered Melodist to hear--
Who yet, confound him! bawled as loud
As if he had to charm a London crowd,
Singing beside the public way,
Accompanied--instead of violin,
Flute, or piano, chiming in--
By rumbling cab, and omnibus, and dray,
A van with iron bars to play staccato,
Or engine obligato--
In short, without one instrument vehicular
(Not even a truck, to be particular),
There stood the rogue and roared,
Unasked and unencored,
Enough to split the organs called auricular!

Heard in that quiet place,
Devoted to a still and studious race,
The noise was quite appalling!
To seek a fitting simile and spin it,
Appropriate to his calling,
His voice had all Lablache's body in it;
But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,
And was, in fact,
Only a forty-boatswain-power of bawling!

'Twas said, indeed, for want of vocal nous,
The stage had banished him when he attempted it,
For tho' his voice completely filled the house,
It also emptied it.
However, there he stood
Vociferous--a ragged don!
And with his iron pipes laid on
A row to all the neighbourhood.

In vain were sashes closed
And doors against the persevering Stentor,
Though brick, and glass, and solid oak opposed,
Th' intruding voice would enter,
Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,
Den, office, parlour, study, and sanctorum;
Where clients and attorneys, rogues, and fools,
Ladies, and masters who attended schools,
Clerks, agents, all provided with their tools,
Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,
With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em--
How it did bore 'em!

Louder, and louder still,
The fellow sang with horrible goodwill,
Curses both loud and deep his sole gratuities,
From scribes bewildered making many a flaw
In deeds of law
They had to draw;
With dreadful incongruities
In posting ledgers, making up accounts
To large amounts,
Or casting up annuities--
Stunned by that voice, so loud and hoarse,
Against whose overwhelming force
No in-voice stood a chance, of course!

The Actuary pshawed and pished,
And knit his calculating brows, and wished
The singer "a bad life"--a mental murther!
The Clerk, resentful of a blot and blunder
Wished the musician further,
Poles distant--and no wonder!
For Law and Harmony tend far asunder--
The Lady could not keep her temper calm,
Because the sinner did not sing a psalm--
The Fiddler in the very same position
As Hogarth's chafed musician
(Such prints require but cursory reminders)
Came and made faces at the wretch beneath,
And wishing for his foe between his teeth,
(Like all impatient elves
That spite themselves)
Ground his own grinders.

But still with unrelenting note,
Though not a copper came of it, in verity,
The horrid fellow with the ragged coat,
And iron throat,
Heedless of present honour and prosperity,
Sang like a Poet singing for posterity,
In penniless reliance--
And, sure, the most immortal Man of Rhyme
Never set Time
More thoroughly at defiance!

From room to room, from floor to floor,
From Number One to Twenty-four
The Nuisance bellowed, till all patience lost,
Down came Miss Frost,
Expostulating at her open door--
"Peace, monster, peace!
Where is the New Police!
I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,
Don't stand there bawling, fellow, don't!
You really send my serious thoughts astray,
Do--there's a dear good man--do go away."
Says he, "I won't!"

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,
That sounded like a wooden d--n,
For so some moral people, strictly loth
To swear in words, however up,
Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,
Or through a doorpost vent a banging oath--
In fact, this sort of physical transgression
Is really no more difficult to trace
Than in a given face
A very bad expression.

However, in she went,
Leaving the subject of her discontent
To Mr. Jones's Clerk at Number Ten;
Who, throwing up the sash,
With accents rash,
Thus hailed the most vociferous of men:
"Come, come, I say, old feller, stop your chant!
I cannot write a sentence--no one can't!
So just pack up your trumps,
And stir your stumps--"
Says he, "I shan't!"

Down went the sash
As if devoted to "eternal smash,"
(Another illustration
Of acted imprecation),
While close at hand, uncomfortably near,
The independent voice, so loud and strong,
And clanging like a gong,
Roared out again the everlasting song,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand!
The Music-master could not stand it--
But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand
As savage as a bandit,
Made up directly to the tattered man,
And thus in broken sentences began--
But playing first a prelude of grimace,
Twisting his features to the strangest shapes,
So that to guess his subject from his face,
He meant to give a lecture upon apes--

"Com--com--I say!
You go away!
Into two parts my head you split--
My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,
When I do play--
You have no bis'ness in a place so still!
Can you not come another day?"
Says he--"I will."

"No--no--you scream and bawl!
You must not come at all!
You have no rights, by rights, to beg--
You have not one off-leg--
You ought to work--you have not some complaint--
You are not cripple in your back or bones--
Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"--
Says he--"It ain't!"

"I say you ought to labour!
You are in a young case,
You have not sixty years upon your face,
To come and beg your neighbour,
And discompose his music with a noise
More worse than twenty boys--
Look what a street it is for quiet!
No cart to make a riot,
No coach, no horses, no postilion,
If you will sing, I say, it is not just,
To sing so loud."--Says he, "I MUST!
I'M SINGING FOR THE MILLION!"

THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT.

O days of old, O days of Knights,
Of tourneys and of tilts,
When love was balk'd and valour stalk'd
On high heroic stilts--
Where are ye gone?--adventures cease,
The world gets tame and flat,--
We've nothing now but New Police--
There's no Romance in that!

I wish I ne'er had learn'd to read,
Or Radcliffe how to write!
That Scott had been a boor on Tweed,
And Lewis cloister'd quite!
Would I had never drunk so deep
Of dear Miss Porter's vat;
I only turn to life, and weep--
There's no Romance in that!

No Bandits lurk--no turban'd Turk
To Tunis bears me off--
I hear no noises in the night
Except my mother's cough,--
No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house,
No shape,--but owl or bat,
Come flitting after moth or mouse,--
There's no Romance in that!

I have not any grief profound,
Or secrets to confess,
My story would not fetch a pound
For A. K. Newman's press;
Instead of looking thin and pale,
I'm growing red and fat,
As if I lived on beef and ale--
There's no Romance in that!

It's very hard, by land or sea
Some strange event I court,
But nothing ever comes to me
That's worth a pen's report:
It really made my temper chafe,
Each coast that I was at,
I vow'd, and rail'd, and came home safe,--
There's no Romance in that!

The only time I had a chance
At Brighton one fine day,
My chestnut mare began to prance,
Took fright, and ran away;
Alas! no Captain of the Tenth
To stop my steed came pat;
A Butcher caught the rein at length,--
There's no Romance in that!

Love--even love--goes smoothly on
A railway sort of track--
No flinty sire, no jealous Don!
No hearts upon the rack;
No Polydore, no Theodore--
His ugly name is Mat,
Plain Matthew Pratt and nothing more--
There's no Romance in that!

He is not dark, he is not tall,
His forehead's rather low,
He is not pensive--not at all,
But smiles his teeth to show;
He comes from Wales and yet in size
Is really but a sprat;
With sandy hair and greyish eyes--
There's no Romance in that!

He wears no plumes or Spanish cloaks,
Or long sword hanging down;
He dresses much like other folks,
And commonly in brown;
His collar he will not discard,
Or give up his cravat,
Lord Byron-like--he's not a Bard--
There's no Romance in that!

He's rather bald, his sight is weak,
He's deaf in either drum;
Without a lisp he cannot speak,
But then--he's worth a plum.
He talks of stocks and three per cents.
By way of private chat,
Of Spanish Bonds, and shares, and rents,--
There's no Romance in that!

I sing--no matter what I sing,
Di Tanti--or Crudel,
Tom Bowling, or God save the King,
Di piacer--All's Well;
He knows no more about a voice
For singing than a gnat--
And as to Music "has no choice,"
There's no Romance in that!

Of light guitar I cannot boast,
He never serenades;
He writes, and sends it by the post,
He doesn't bribe the maids:
No stealth, no hempen ladder--no!
He comes with loud rat-tat,
That startles half of Bedford Row--
There's no Romance in that!

He comes at nine in time to choose
His coffee--just two cups,
And talks with Pa about the news,
Repeats debates, and sups.
John helps him with his coat aright,
And Jenkins hands his hat;
My lover bows, and says good-night--
There's no Romance in that!

I've long had Pa's and Ma's consent,
My aunt she quite approves,
My Brother wishes joy from Kent,
None try to thwart our loves;
On Tuesday reverend Mr. Mace
Will make me Mrs. Pratt,
Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place--
There's no Romance in that!