 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
671
ODE
(NOW PAID)
TO AN ORGAN-GRINDER.
Oh! patient turner of the crank harmonic!
Ixion thou of never-ending airs!
Foe to chromatic scales and diatonic!
Indifferent to curses, deaf to prayers,
I note thee, standing on the cobble-stones,
Remorseless mangling tones and semi-tones,
Ixion thou of never-ending airs!
Foe to chromatic scales and diatonic!
Indifferent to curses, deaf to prayers,
I note thee, standing on the cobble-stones,
Remorseless mangling tones and semi-tones,
Baking our Do and giving Fa a fall,
Attacking Mi and violating La,
Dispersing every Re and clouding Sol,
Stirring the Si with brown Italian paw;
Minstrel of Italy, mechanic Mario!
Of the street-opera sole empressario.
Attacking Mi and violating La,
Dispersing every Re and clouding Sol,
Stirring the Si with brown Italian paw;
Minstrel of Italy, mechanic Mario!
Of the street-opera sole empressario.
Some let their wrathful words upon thee thunder,
Bidding thee take thine organ “out of that,”
And take thyself their window-ledge from under,
And will not drop one kreuzer in thy hat—
Nay, some, to scare thee quicker from the street,
Call loud for the policeman on the beat.
Bidding thee take thine organ “out of that,”
And take thyself their window-ledge from under,
And will not drop one kreuzer in thy hat—
Nay, some, to scare thee quicker from the street,
Call loud for the policeman on the beat.
But I indulge not in such verbal waste—
I have a pewter shilling, which is thine;
So take thy time—grind on—I'm not in haste,
And the policeman has gone home to dine.
(Perhaps in that I'm wrong—he may be closer—he
Is very much given to yonder corner grocery.)
I have a pewter shilling, which is thine;
So take thy time—grind on—I'm not in haste,
And the policeman has gone home to dine.
(Perhaps in that I'm wrong—he may be closer—he
Is very much given to yonder corner grocery.)
672
Why dost thou vex the air with those rude sounds?
Hast thou a spite against the human race?
Has thy soul suffered from the many wounds
Given it by men of wealth and power and place?
Hast thou some rival slain and, under locks,
Fastened his wailing spirit in the box?
Hast thou a spite against the human race?
Has thy soul suffered from the many wounds
Given it by men of wealth and power and place?
Hast thou some rival slain and, under locks,
Fastened his wailing spirit in the box?
Wert thou a noble in thy land so sunny,
Who did some wrong to Ghibelline or Guelph?
And dost thou wander daily, less for money
Than as a punishment upon thyself?
Or toilest thou from love of gain unholy,
Pouring out discord for the coppers solely?
Who did some wrong to Ghibelline or Guelph?
And dost thou wander daily, less for money
Than as a punishment upon thyself?
Or toilest thou from love of gain unholy,
Pouring out discord for the coppers solely?
Cowper, the poet, though all debt despising,
Oh'd for a lodge in some vast wilderness;
Had he heard thee thus dole thy strains surprising,
He would have owed for twenty—more or less—
Ay, would have, that his hearing might be less hurt,
Voted himself a farm far in the desert.
Oh'd for a lodge in some vast wilderness;
Had he heard thee thus dole thy strains surprising,
He would have owed for twenty—more or less—
Ay, would have, that his hearing might be less hurt,
Voted himself a farm far in the desert.
Poor Robinson Crusoe, at his fortune grumbling,
Cast on an island far from friends and kin,
Were he, escaped, to hear this squealing, rumbling,
Tune-mangling, jangling, squeaking, shrieking din,
Would stand aghast, and hail the day a high day
Which bore him back to parrots and Man Friday.
Cast on an island far from friends and kin,
Were he, escaped, to hear this squealing, rumbling,
Tune-mangling, jangling, squeaking, shrieking din,
Would stand aghast, and hail the day a high day
Which bore him back to parrots and Man Friday.
Still turns the crank! Well, Job was patient—very!
Furunculi (um! boils) and loss of kine,
Camels and sheep and lands hereditary—
All these he felt, but not this woe of mine.
Smitten he was with many woes, good lack!
But then his ears were never on the rack.
Furunculi (um! boils) and loss of kine,
Camels and sheep and lands hereditary—
All these he felt, but not this woe of mine.
Smitten he was with many woes, good lack!
But then his ears were never on the rack.
673
Though Mistress Job henpecked him, and Eliphaz
Tormented him, he never thought to wince;
Careless of taunts from friends and such a wife as
Some few had had before, and others since.
But wert thou there thy music-mill to grind,
Then Job had been no model for mankind.
Tormented him, he never thought to wince;
Careless of taunts from friends and such a wife as
Some few had had before, and others since.
But wert thou there thy music-mill to grind,
Then Job had been no model for mankind.
Oh! sweet Italian! wilt thou not have pity?
Thou hast been torturing me an hour or more—
Hence to some other spot within the city!
Shoulder thine organ and depart my door!
Now, this is too much! Lo! another comes!
Is there no respite for our aural drums?
Thou hast been torturing me an hour or more—
Hence to some other spot within the city!
Shoulder thine organ and depart my door!
Now, this is too much! Lo! another comes!
Is there no respite for our aural drums?
And not at all deterred this seems to be
Because a rival on the spot has been:
Round goes the crank, and—fearful sight to see!
He has a woman with a tambourine,
Who leads a little monkey by a string,
And, mercy on us! she's about to sing!
Because a rival on the spot has been:
Round goes the crank, and—fearful sight to see!
He has a woman with a tambourine,
Who leads a little monkey by a string,
And, mercy on us! she's about to sing!
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |