trinkie
25-Sep-07, 10:20
SERENADE
by Harry Graham c. 1900
The swain of old his ballad trolled,
In sentimental fashion;
On lyre, or lute, on fife or flute,
He voiced his nightly passion.
While Flora listened from her casement
And father cursed him in the basement,
On gay guitar he thrummed a bar,
From Braga's 'Serenata'
He twanged a harp (his nails were sharp)
Or sang a soft Cantata,
To sound of dulcimer or gittern
He cooed like some dyspeptic bittern.
No modern swain could pipe a strain
Which Flo would ever pardon;
His loud trombone, his xylophone
His tuba and bombardon,
Would make a most unpleasant shindy,
Beneath the lady's bedroom windy.
With tympani which rend the sky
Jew's-harps (from local Ghettos)
With ophicleids and shawns, besides
Some corno-di-basettos,
His sweetheart's nerves he would disgruntle,
With discords harsh and contrapuntal.
While Strauss's songs are scored for gongs,
With cryptic orchestration,
Each modern Op. (forgive my 'shop')
Sounds like an operation,
Those instruments that bleat so queerly
Are instruments of torture, merely.
by Harry Graham c. 1900
The swain of old his ballad trolled,
In sentimental fashion;
On lyre, or lute, on fife or flute,
He voiced his nightly passion.
While Flora listened from her casement
And father cursed him in the basement,
On gay guitar he thrummed a bar,
From Braga's 'Serenata'
He twanged a harp (his nails were sharp)
Or sang a soft Cantata,
To sound of dulcimer or gittern
He cooed like some dyspeptic bittern.
No modern swain could pipe a strain
Which Flo would ever pardon;
His loud trombone, his xylophone
His tuba and bombardon,
Would make a most unpleasant shindy,
Beneath the lady's bedroom windy.
With tympani which rend the sky
Jew's-harps (from local Ghettos)
With ophicleids and shawns, besides
Some corno-di-basettos,
His sweetheart's nerves he would disgruntle,
With discords harsh and contrapuntal.
While Strauss's songs are scored for gongs,
With cryptic orchestration,
Each modern Op. (forgive my 'shop')
Sounds like an operation,
Those instruments that bleat so queerly
Are instruments of torture, merely.