HE played so many instruments A thousand won't express The number that he handled -- why 'T was mor'n that, I guess; An' when he got to playin' hard We couldn't make 'im stop; It seemed he didn't want to rest Er ever take a drop. He'd look around fer things to play, Then walk up to the viol As if he'd suddenly forgot, An' touch up that awhile. The mandolin was his best holt -- He jest took the diploma With his Philomela, Tierra Del Fuego, La Paloma. He played an upright pianner forte, A concert grand, or square, And he imitated Paddy Roofski, all accept the hair. You should have heard him when he played Upon an old trombone That song about the moments when One wants to be alone. He played upon an AEolian, Told us how he used to roam An' play "Little Sally Waters" Ten thousand miles from home. He played a big church organ great, Played with his hands and feet, And often played the choir, too. Oh, it was just a treat. He played the jewsharp, hit the pipe, And worked the organette; He played not only instruments, But everyone he met. He played 'em all; you should have heard Him jerk a grewsome tune And play those eozoic notes Upon a long bassoon. He played the soft guitar an' scraped The tuneful violin; Old "number five" was his best holt. He used to sit and grin, An' jest ketch up the instruments One right after another; It didn't make no difference, For one was good as t'other. Strange instruments -- the lyre and lute And others that he tooted. You took your choice. He didn't care Whether he fifed or fluted. He'd rather play 'an anything, Unless it was to drink, Because he said it rested 'im An' gave 'im time to think. He made some curious instruments That nobody could play, And said 'at he would jest about Surprise us all some day. And so one time he fetched 'er out, -- Of all the lookin' things, With harps an' horns attached to 'er An' run criss-cross with strings. He brought 'er forth an' sat 'er down As if he knew his biz, And when we asked him what it was? He answered, "What it is." We laughed as we were seated 'round; I recollect 'twas June; It rained that spring, rained all this morn, And rained that afternoon. There seemed a touch of magic in The deftness of his hand; A look about his pallid face We didn't understand. The instrument we noted much, It had such curious stringin', The frets arranged in such a way; He'd made it so for singin', Then touching on a happy theme That carried us remote, To sunset lands, for melody Divine was in each note. We listened to the lullabies Till all were silent, stilled, In memory of the bygone days, The eyes of all were filled. Then on to sterner manhood and Old age. Ah! how he played! We saw again life's pathway, too; But oh! how far we'd strayed. Then on to sunken cheeks we pass, From life then on to glory. O song! O dirge! O sainted theme! Sad requiem to life's story. That pallid look now comes again, The tremors o'er him creep. His head falls back. Dead? No, my friend, He's simply gone to sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON A PORTRAIT OF WORDSWORTH BY B.R. HAYDON by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A FAREWELL by GEORGE GASCOIGNE CARRION COMFORT by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS RAIN IN SUMMER by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE BIRDS: THE BUILDING OF CLOUDCUCKOOCITY by ARISTOPHANES |