University of Virginia Library

I took a flight the other night
When thought to be asleep;
At what was going on in town
I wished to have a peep.
Upon an opera-house I perched,
And found that, strange to say,
“The Music of the Future”
Was all the rage to-day.
I listened most attentively,
And fear, upon my word,
In the music of the future
No music will be heard.
'Tis possible I may be wrong,
Though critics tell me soon
There'll be no singing in a song,
No melody in tune.
But birds will warble in the trees,
Nor for the critics care;
And in the murmur of the breeze
We yet may find some air.
I looked into the Vaudeville,
Where mirth the town enjoys,
And found that they were acting still
“Our” everlasting “Boys;”
They've run a thousand nights, and may
A thousand more, and then
They'll change the title of the play,
And call it “Our Old Men.”
But pray mistake me not, and think
I hold “Our Boys” in scorn,
Or would in James's bosom plant
A less agreeable Thorne.
When piece and actors are so good,
As in this case they're rated,
I don't see why they ever should
Be superannuated.

Another theatre I sought,
Where I had understood
The stalls were filled with fashion
And the fun was “Awful good.”
So in I went, and certainly
A brilliant house I saw full,
And frankly own the sort of fun
I witnessed there was “awful;”
Buffoonery devoid of all
That makes an art of folly,
Music that was “most music-hall,”
To hear, “most melancholy.”
Such was the comment on it made
By an accomplished joker,
Who grieved with me such stuff should be
Of laughter the provoker;
Still more that clever men for pay
Should condescend to write so;
When swells drawled out, “That's not half bad!”
We thought, “No, for it's quite so.”

Out through the crowd, into the air,
Gladly enough I scuffled,
My temper and my plumage torn,
Considerably ruffled.
'Twas rather late elsewhere to go,
But passing some gay broughams,
I heard from one a lady say,
“Drive to the Argyll Rooms.”
The Argyll Rooms!—I'd heard of them,
And thought that in I'd drop
For half an hour. Though an old bird,
I'm still game for a hop.
The brougham I followed, but before
We reached the rooms, the clock
Struck twelve, and out the company
Had been compelled to flock.
I spotted some one whom I should ne'er
Have thither gone to seek.
I name no persons: but amongst
The rest I spied—a Beak.
His worship had gone there, of course,
Only the place to view;
And felt that he was justified
The license to renew.
Homeward I therefore took my way,
By no means loth to pop
My head beneath my wing, and sleep
On one leg like a top.
But if you think a bird's-eye view
Of men and things worth taking,
I'll try another note or two
The next time I go raking.