THE LYRIC MARKET.

Bush Advocate, Volume VII, Issue 650, 16 July 1892, Page 5

THE LYRIC MARKET.

(DAILY SETTo.) England is a nest of singing birds, birds who oau sing, and will, i£ they OTjly get the slightest encouragement. Editors of magazines havo long been awiiie of our opulence in melody. Myriads of poems reavii them, but; the worst of t is that all the poets are so gloomy. Not a man or woman of thtm but has a broken heart (at two guineas), not ono but pines for " tha long ago,' 1 the seasons, notably spring-, which return no more. As a rule, the bright lyrist addresses a lady or gentleman unknown, and argues from premisses not in possession, of the editor. Do you remember, long ago, how sweet, how swift the seasons paafed ; we did not guo3s, wo did not know, that ono of these would be our last ? We saw tho sunp in amber set, we saw tho moon in silver rise ; alas, 'twas easy to forget that wo should look with, other eyes, with other ojes oa day and night, with other eyes on death and lovo ; yot still tho Eamo suns rise in light, tho same old firmamont's above. 'Tis only you and I are changed, the winter comes where once -wft3 spring, and faces altered, hearts estranged ; ah, wherefore do you bid them singp As a matter of fact nobody bids them sing ; every one in an editorial position is only too anxious that they should leave off singing. Anybody could sins: like that, or write like that, currente calamo. There is nothing in tho lyrics, nor in the remarks about autumn which aro so frequently forwarded without a stamped and directed envelope lor return if unsuitable. They commonly go something like this : Ah, golden afternoon, September half forgets how once the leafy June held lovers in her nets of vialete. Ah, falling rusaet leaf, canst them or thine recall how fragrant and how brief the chestnuts blossomed all, abovo the wall. Oh brook, an altered tuno thou singest as thougcest.changed is thino air since June, but whence or why thou flowoit, thou nothing lmowest. And we, our lore that was, tho old lore dio.3 and dwindles; in spring it bloomed because in spring the blossom kindles. So work fate's spindles. But with the waning sun, the bee's no more a rover, his holiaay ia done among tho honeyed clover; Love, too, ii over ! These sentiments could not successfully be put to a jury, in a Broach of Promise case, but they .make the staple of the poetry which is hurled at the magazines, and comes back like a boomerang. The authors are disappointed when tho verses return, and publish them in volumes at six shillings, ana their own expense. Nobody buys the volumes, nobody reads them, nobody reviews them to any great extent, and then the poets "wilt, ' to use a pathetic old word, and declare that they are unhandsomely treated. They should learn that there is no market for an article which nobody •wants, and which any intelligent man, woman, or child could provide for 'himself, home-made, if to felt nny need for aucb. unsatisfactory wares. These poems are not only easy to make, but they ure almost always excessively unwholesome. Despair, doubt, broken hearts, mouldy cottages, unfrequented churchyards, regrets, lost illusions, aro tha invariable staple. Surely life is not so uncommonly serious that we mast bo for ever whining, oven if the worst comes to the worst. Say that tho Servico has ro:>6 to tho dogs, and the Empiro even further; put it that the Gaul is at the gates, or inside them ; imagine that you havo no more bolief left than a Zulu, and thnt the young person you addressed lias jilted you, the poet, what then 'i Similar deplorable occurrences have frequently happened in the history of the world, aud yot overybody did not writo dull, lamentable verses on the matter. The Minor Poet is merely a nuisance, a vain, discontented bore, and he ought to be suppressed, and his verses used to light pipes wiihal. So the hard, cold world is agreed ; but at this hour of doubly-dyed despair appears *!'The Lyric Author,' 1 " Adrertiser and Composer's Magazine." Tho plan is simple, like that of some other great inventions. Tho Ljrrio Author, baffled and scoffed at ou every haud, scuds his song, or a bit of it, to the paper, with a email sum of money. The poem is then printed, in whole or part, with tho fee for which tho lyrio author will permit the composer to wed his immortal strains with doathloss music. And, then, we Buppose, tho composer reads the paper, chooses his favourite effusion, and pnys his fee. The firat poem in No. 2, Vol. £„ is comparatively cheerj'. It is called "Sweethearts Still." Thia is unusual, a broken engtigemont and heart is a theme more dear to tho minor poet. Wo regard this robust and tonic composition as decidedly cheap 1 tit a guinea. "It may not bo "is more in tho accustomed vein. Of course it may not be, it harJiy ever may. Two guineas is a good deal of money to pay for shoer desolation. " Long ago and far away " hits .a dismal kind of hopefulness about it, which is more affecting to a scnsiblo heart than Bimply ' ; chucking the whole aflair and starting fresh, as it wore, "to play a bye.' 1 "June Hoses'' naturally remarks on the well-known fact in botany that " too soon tho lcavos are sere." A'so "olden" is used without " golden," which is contrary to the laws of the game. Another poet, datingly original, "has won his sweet Kathleen," aud is not tired of her yet. "From Shadow Land " relapses into tho lone lorn style of Mrs. Gummidgo. Apparently the fond onos havo boon reconciled, after " long, weary years ago." A buglor is requested to perform ou his favourite instrument, in yet another ditty, but to what practical purpose ! Tho warrior whom it is proposed to waken is dead, as dead as Agamemnon. Then we havn a " Brokeu Lily," who " sings withhis dying breath." Almost the only exceptions to the general gloom aremarmers.andtheiroheerfulues3 doos them credit. Nearly nil tho rest of tho world is dead, or dying, or estranged, or broken-hearted, in all our modem minor poetry. Wo do not know whethor composers prefer undiluted misery, but the general leader, if ever he reads modern poetry at all, wauta something loss inonotoriously "woebegone. Perhaps it would do good to accept a few lyrics — the singers might cheer up, but it is a dangerous experiment.