Harper and Beau-man, and Platt and Cooke,
I bring you into this comical book;
Just as I've seen you blowing so hard,
At your own original Strand Prom'nade!
Harper, you're no harper at all;
A harper sings as he rattles his strings;
You don't meddle with any such things:
Your strings are your lungs, with their brazen tongues;
If men don't like your play—they may lump it;
But you beat, you know, the world at a _blow_,
And it can't play a _trick_ but you're sure to _trump-it_!
Beau-man! Bowman! I tell you what,
If you are a bowman I'll be shot,
From a n_arrow_ chest you do not sigh;
No _quiver_ have you, and no big _bull's eye_;
Yet with your long bassoon so deep,
Through _passages_ many you're heard to sweep:
Some of them light, and some of them dark,
And, whatever their measure, you _hit your mark_.
Platt! Platt! I can't stand that—
To call you Platt is both rude and raw,
Just as if _you_ were a man of _straw_,
Or a twister of _hair_, or a man at a hell,
Playing the part of a _Bonnetter_ well.
No, no; that is no go;
The public never will let it be so:
You are a _navigator_ born,
And all your life will be _rounding Cape Horn_;
Your sails will be full of fair wind to the last,
And there's no one more perfectly _used to the blast_!
Cooke! Cooke! you comical elf,
_You_ never _dress'd_ anything but yourself;
You are no Cook, sir, although, by your fun,
I've known some few people most _thoroughly done_;
_You_ are "first hautboy," a tried and a true,
And what pleasant hours I _owe, boy_, to you!
[Illustration:
Low note.
]
[Illustration:
High note.
]
[Illustration:
Sharp.
]
[Illustration:
Flat.
]
[Illustration: A flourish of Trumpets.]
[Illustration:
OCTOBER—"A _Drive_ in Drury lane."
]