(_BY OUR ORCHESTRAL EXPERT._)
The full programme for the season of Promenade Concerts which opened
last Saturday is, as usual, a most interesting document, and we are of
course glad to see that our gallant Allies are so well represented.
But it is the function of the critic to criticise, and we may be
permitted to express a mild regret that our native school, though by
no means excluded, does not make so good a show as its energy and
talents would seem to warrant. Our native composers are especially
noticeable for their wide range of themes, for the Celtic and Gaelic
glamour which they infuse into their treatment of them, and for their
realistic titles. We have drawn up a list of instrumental works
which illustrate these characteristics, but which are unfortunately
conspicuous by their absence from Sir HENRY WOOD'S scheme. As,
however, it is subject to alteration we are not without the hope that
some of them may yet be included in the list of works to be heard at
the Queen's Hall in the next six weeks.
SYMPHONIC VARIATIONS. "Father's lost his collar-stud." _Hans
Halfburn_.
KELTIC KORONACH. "Wirrasthrue." _Seumas Macdthoirbwlch_.
FUNERAL MARCH OF A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR. _Nelson Wellington_.
SIAMESE LULLABY for Sixteen Trombones. _Quantock de Banville_.
FANTASIA. "Wardour Street." _Yokeling Ffoulkes_.
MANX MEDITATION for Revolving Orchestra. "Laxey Wheel." _Bradda
Quellyn_.
OVERTURE. "Glasgow Fair." _Talisker McUsquebaugh_.
CAMBRIAN "SNEEZE" for Full Orchestra. _Taliesin Jones_.
ORCHESTRA MUSINGS ON IRISH RAILWAY STATIONS. _Dermod MacCathmhaoil_.
(a) Stillorgan. (b) Dundrum. (c) Bray.
BUBBLINGS FROM BUTE. _Diarmid Dinwiddie_.
DITHYRAMBIC ODE. "The Belles of Barmouth." _Ivor Jenkins_.
VALSE FANTASTIQUE. "Synthetic Rubber." _Marcellus Thom_.
* * * * *
_CHEMIN DES DAMES_.
In silks and satins the ladies went
Where the breezes sighed and the poplars bent,
Taking the air of a Sunday morn
Midst the red of poppies and gold of corn--
Flowery ladies in gold brocades,
With negro pages and serving-maids,
In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan,
With brooch and buckle and flounce and fan,
Patch and powder and trailing scent,
Under the trees the ladies went--
Lovely ladies that gleamed and glowed,
As they took the air on the Ladies' Road.
Boom of thunder and lightning flash--
The torn earth rocks to the barrage crash;
The bullets whine and the bullets sing
From the mad machine-guns chattering;
Black smoke rolling across the mud,
Trenches plastered with flesh and blood--
The blue ranks lock with the ranks of gray,
Stab and stagger and sob and sway;
The living cringe from the shrapnel bursts,
The dying moan of their burning thirsts,
Moan and die in the gulping slough--
Where are the butterfly ladies now?