!
O, well for the tailor's son
That he soars in the old, old way!
And the twelve-year chaps go on
Up the gamut steady and shrill;
But, O, for the creak of a larynx cracked,
And a glottis that won't keep still!
Break, break, break,
O voice, on my dear top C.
But the swell solo parts of a boyhood fled
They'll never give more to me!
* * * * *
ANNALS OF A QUIET WATERING-PLACE
THAT HAS "SEEN ITS DAY."
This is the nineteenth day that I have had my face glued to the
window-pane watching for the promised "break" in the weather that is
to enable me to get a little of the benefit of the sea-air of this
place that my doctor assures me is "to do such wonders for me in
a week that I shall not know myself." What it might do for me if
I could only get hold of it, I can only guess, but the result of
the persistent rain has been slowly but surely to empty the Grand
Esplanade, the drawing and dining-room floors of which announce on
colossal cards that the whole twenty-four establishments are "to let,"
with the result that all the recreation that Torsington-on-Sea affords
has formed a sort of conspiracy to drive me mad with amusement.
The trombone of the town band steals a march on the rest, commencing
as early as eight o'clock in the morning with a very powerful
rendering of "_Il Balen_," who is succeeded in turn by the discarded
Christy Minstrel with the damaged concertina.
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