_By One who lives Next Door._
[The Salvationists of Warwickshire have lately been restrained by
the new county by-law, which provides that no person shall play any
musical instrument within fifty yards of a dwelling-house.]
Bravo, good men of Warwick! you'd rejoice
JOHN LEECH's soul and all whose nerves are shattered
By blatant street musician's raucous voice
Or braying trombone--these at last you've scattered!
Ah! would that London followed now your lead,
And kept a tight hand o'er the rude fanatics
Who blare away her Sunday peace, whose creed
Is uproar, "fire and blood," and acrobatics!
If they'd a grain of humour's saving grace,
Enough to hear themselves as _others_ hear them,
They'd straight retire to some far desert place
And bang and clang and howl where none come near them!
Ev'n as I write, some strain like "_Daisy Bell_"
With would-be sacred words and tuneless jar racks
My tortured ear--hard fate has made me dwell
Next door, alas! to what they call their "barracks."
Their ranting, roaring may be heav'nly joys,
But _me_ they fill with bile and ire plethoric;
When, I would ask, shall we put down such noise,
As have the worthy citizens of Warwick?
* * * * *