Story of the Flute
And far into the murky night,
How he'll stop us on our ways
With its praise!
And fill with sore affright
All the people—oh, the people—
Who don't live in the steeple,
Where he visiteth and plays,
Where he plays, plays, plays.
In the crudest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute.
Who would rather have the ear-ach
Than the music of his flute:
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tootleings of its toot,
Of the toots wherewith he tootleth
His agonizing toot
Of the flewt, floot, fluit,
Flute, phlute, phlewt, phlewght.
Of the tootle, tootle, tootleing
Of its toot, toot, toot,
With the wheezings and the spittings
Of its toots!"
How he'll stop us on our ways
With its praise!
And fill with sore affright
All the people—oh, the people—
Who don't live in the steeple,
Where he visiteth and plays,
Where he plays, plays, plays.
In the crudest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute.
Who would rather have the ear-ach
Than the music of his flute:
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tootleings of its toot,
Of the toots wherewith he tootleth
His agonizing toot
Of the flewt, floot, fluit,
Flute, phlute, phlewt, phlewght.
Of the tootle, tootle, tootleing
Of its toot, toot, toot,
With the wheezings and the spittings
Of its toots!"
Scribner's Magazine, October 1800, contains a somewhat mystical poem, "The Flute," too long to quote fully—
"'How sounds thy flute, great master?' said a child; . . .
'Hath it a music very soft and mild,
Or loud its tone?'
'Hath it a music very soft and mild,
Or loud its tone?'
Then he, who loved all children tenderly,
Brought forth his best companion, and his lips
Set fondly 'gainst the wood. The melody
Followed his flying finger-tips,
Brought forth his best companion, and his lips
Set fondly 'gainst the wood. The melody
Followed his flying finger-tips,
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