The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

A LORD, most musically mad,
Yet with a taste superlatively bad,
Ask'd a squeal eunuch to his house one day—
A poor old semivir, whose throat
Had lost his love-resounding note,
Which art had giv'n, and time had stol'n away.

‘Signor Squalini,’ with a solemn air,
The lord began, grave rising from his chair,
Taking Squalini kindly by the hand;
‘Signor Squalini, much I fear
I've got a most unlucky ear,
And that 'tis known to all the music band.

Fond of abuse, each fiddling coxcomb carps,
And, true it is, I don't know flats from sharps:
Indeed, Signor Squalini, 'tis no hum;
So ill doth music with my organs suit,
I scarcely know a fiddle from a flute,
The hautbois from the double drum.

Now though with lords a number of this nation,
I go to op'ras, more through fashion
Than for the love of music, I could wish
The world might think I had some little taste,
That those two ears were tolerably chaste,
But, sir, I am as stupid as a fish.

Get me the credit of a cognoscente,
Gold shan't be wanting to content ye.’—

‘Bravissimo! my lor,’ replied Squalini,
With acquiescent bow, and smile of suavity,
De nobleman muss never look de ninny.’—
‘True,’ cry'd the noble lord, with German gravity.

‘My lor, ven men vant money in der purse,
Dey do not vant de vorld to tink dem poor,
Because, my lor, dat be von shabby curse;
Dis all same ting wid ignorance, my lor.’—

‘Right,’ cry'd his lordship in a grumbling tone,
Much like a mastiff jealous of his bone.

‘But first I want some technicals, signor’—
Bowing, the eunuch answered—‘Iss, my lor;
I teash your lorship queekly, queekly, all,
Dere vat be call de sostenuto note,
Dat be ven singer oppen vide de troat,
And den for long time make de squawl—
Mush long, long note, dat do continue while
A man, my lor, can valk a mile.

My lor, der likewise be de cromatique,
As if de singer vas in greef, or sick,
And had de colic—dat be ver, ver fine:
De high, oh, dat musician call soprano;
De low voice, basso; de soff note, piano—
Bravoura, queek, bold—here Marchesi shine.

Dis Mara, too, and Billington, do know—
Allegro, quick; adagio, be de slow:
Pomposo, dat be manner make de roar:
Maestoso, dat be grand and nobel ting,
Mush like de voice of emperor, or de king;
Or you, my lor,
When in de house you make de grand oration,
For save, my lor, de noble Englis nation.’

Thus having giv'n his lesson, and a bow,
With high complacency his lordship smil'd:

Unravell'd was his lordship's pucker'd brow,
His scowling eye, like Luna's beams, so mild:

Such is th' effect, when flatteries sweet cajole
That praise-admiring wight yclep'd the soul;
And from the days of Adam 'tis the case,
That great's the sympathy 'twixt soul and face.

‘Signor Squalini,’ cry'd the lord,
‘The op'ra is begun, upon my word—
Allons, signor, and hear me—mind,
As soon as ever you shall find
A singer's voice above or under pitch,
Just touch my toe, or give my arm a twitch.’

‘Iss, iss, my lor,’ the eunuch straight reply'd,
I sheet close by your lorship's side;
And den, accordin to your lorship wish,
I give your lorship elbow little twish.’

Now to the opera, music's sounds to hear,
The old castrato and the noble peer
Proceeded—near the orchestra they sat,
Before the portals of the singers' throats!
The critic couple mousing for bad notes
With all the keenness of a hungry cat.

Now came an out-of-tunish note—
The eunuch twitch'd his lordship's coat:
Full-mouth'd at once his lordship roar'd out ‘Psha!’
The orchestra, amaz'd, turn round
To find from whence arose the critic sound,
When, lo! they heard the lord, and saw!

The eunuch kept most slily twitching,
His frowning lordship all the while,
(Not in the cream of courtly style)
Be-dogging this poor singer, that be-bitching,
Uniting too, a host of damning pshas,
And reap'd a plenteous harvest of applause:—
Grew from that hour a lord of tuneful skill,
And though the eunuch's dead, remains so still.