Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes |
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I MUST HAVE MUSIC. |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
III. I MUST HAVE MUSIC.
I must have music in my soul,
Though envious tongues deny it.
I'm very certain I've a voice,
And spite of fate I'll try it.
I'll practice morning, noon, and night,
I'll buy the best instruction,
I will abjure all solid food,
If singers live by suction.
Though envious tongues deny it.
I'm very certain I've a voice,
And spite of fate I'll try it.
I'll practice morning, noon, and night,
I'll buy the best instruction,
I will abjure all solid food,
If singers live by suction.
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I'll hold a note—'till you shall think
That, very like a miser,
I never mean to change that note,
But you shall find I'm wiser:
For you may fix on any key,
Then name of notes one dozen,
My spendthrift chest shall soon pour forth
The treasure you have chosen.
That, very like a miser,
I never mean to change that note,
But you shall find I'm wiser:
For you may fix on any key,
Then name of notes one dozen,
My spendthrift chest shall soon pour forth
The treasure you have chosen.
At present, up and down the scale,
I run with zeal unwearied,
Nor deviate into an air
Till minor points are carried.
When morning dawns, my task begins,
At midnight hour it endeth,
(Except those tasty intervals
That man in eating spendeth.)
I run with zeal unwearied,
Nor deviate into an air
Till minor points are carried.
When morning dawns, my task begins,
At midnight hour it endeth,
(Except those tasty intervals
That man in eating spendeth.)
But genius and the world are foes!—
I have a hateful neighbour,
A scientific man, forsooth!
I scorn his plodding labour!
He sends me messages, and says
My noise distracts his study.
My singing, noise! poor wretch, he knows
Nought about taste—how should he?
I have a hateful neighbour,
A scientific man, forsooth!
I scorn his plodding labour!
He sends me messages, and says
My noise distracts his study.
My singing, noise! poor wretch, he knows
Nought about taste—how should he?
Two other neighbours, invalids,
Who live on slops and dozing,
Complain my singing wakes them up
Just when their eyes are closing!
I never sing till five o'clock,
As if that could disturb them!
I'll let my talents take their course,
And scorn those who would curb them.
Who live on slops and dozing,
Complain my singing wakes them up
Just when their eyes are closing!
I never sing till five o'clock,
As if that could disturb them!
I'll let my talents take their course,
And scorn those who would curb them.
One, (much too cold to estimate
My talents in their true sense,)
Did—oh it cuts me to the soul!—
Indict me as a nuisance!
I shook—but 'twas a vocal shake,
Not one from terror springing,
No judge could venture to assert
I'm no great shakes at singing.
My talents in their true sense,)
Did—oh it cuts me to the soul!—
Indict me as a nuisance!
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Not one from terror springing,
No judge could venture to assert
I'm no great shakes at singing.
Once came a crowd, a menial crowd,
Crying: “There must be murder!
We heard a female's horrid screams.
Yes, hereabouts we heard her!”
They climb'd the wall—they forced the door!—
The ragamuffin sorte!
They found me sitting all alone,
And singing rather forte!
Crying: “There must be murder!
We heard a female's horrid screams.
Yes, hereabouts we heard her!”
They climb'd the wall—they forced the door!—
The ragamuffin sorte!
They found me sitting all alone,
And singing rather forte!
I'll sing the air that Sontag sings,
Rode's air with variations.
My throat shall be the thoroughfare
For all the new inflations.
All styles I'll master—I'll outgrowl
The trombone when I go low!
And when in alt, Velluti's self
Shan't sing so high a solo!
Rode's air with variations.
My throat shall be the thoroughfare
For all the new inflations.
All styles I'll master—I'll outgrowl
The trombone when I go low!
And when in alt, Velluti's self
Shan't sing so high a solo!
| Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems | |