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STREET MUSICIANS.
HARP.
OH the teazing, weary tune,
That my fingers will not play !
Oh the worn-out, crazy harp !
Shall I fling it quite away ?
No, poor harp, we are old friends,
Comrades, till our journey ends.
CORNET.
If ever a man was a madman,
'Twas he who essayed to rise
From a pauper life to an artist life,
'Neath the fog of the English skies.
What if the music within him
Should struggle and pant to speak ?
