Farm Festivals.

Otago Witness, Issue 1584, 1 April 1882, Page 28

Farm Festivals.

THE FESTIVAL OP MELODY; OK, THE SINGING-SCHOOL. Mr Abraham Bates was a tuDe-siricken man, Builfc on an exclusively musical plan ; With a body and soul that with naught could commune, Unless it might somehow be set to a tune. His features, harmoniously solemn and grim, Resembled a doleful old long-metro hymn ; His smile, half-obtrmively gentle and calm, Suggested the livelier notes of a psalm ; And his form had a power the appearanoa to lend Of an overgrown tuning-fork, set upon end. They who his accomplishments fathomed, averred ♦ That he knew every tune that he ever had heard ; And his wife had a secret we all helped her keep, That he frequently Biiored a rough tune in his sleep. When he walked through the fields, with an inwardturned ear. And a general impression that no one was near, He with forefinger stretched to its fullest command, Would beat quadruple time on the palm of his hand (So firmly his singing-school habits would cling), With bis • Down, left, right, up ! down, lelt, right, upl Singl' What a monarch he was, to us tune-killing wights, When he stood in the schoolhouse, on long Winter nights, With a dignity born our young souls to overwhelm, Proclaiming the laws of his musical realm ! The black-board behind him frowned fierce on our Its old forehead creased with five wrinkles of white, On which he paraded his armio3 of notes, And sent on a raid through our eyes to our throats ; From the scenes of which partly harmonious turmoils They issued, head-fint, with our breath as their spoils. How (in his particular specialty) grand He looked, as he tiptoed, with baton in hand, And up, down, and up, in appropriate time, Compelled us that plippery laddor to climb, As he flourished his weapon, and marched to and fro, With his 'Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, sol, la, si, do ;' Nathaniel F. Jennings I how sadly you tried, With your eyes a third closed, and your mouth opened wide, To sport an acceptable voice, like the rest, And cultivate powers that you nevor possessed ! They were just out of music, it used to be said, When they drafted the plan of your square, shaggy head. You fired at each note, as it were, in the dark, As an amateur rifleman would at a mark ; And short of opinion, till after the shot, Of whether you'd happen to hit it or not. E'en then you didn't know, till your sharp eye was told By the way that the master's would fla'ter or scold. The latter more oft ; for your chances, sad wight, Were seven to be wrong against one to be right, And nt'er was a tune so mellifluously choice, You could not embitter the same with your voice. But though your grim head hadn'b the shade of atone, Your heart had a musical style of its own ; And we all found it out, 'neath the forest-trees wild, The last night we hunted for Davis' child. . • May as well give It up,' said our leader : •No good ; We've hunted three days and three nights in this wood ; We may as well look at it just as it is : He's eaten or starved, long enough before this.' And Davis spoke up : ' It's a fact, boys ; he's right ;' But he leaned 'gainst a tree, looking death-like and white. You exclaimed, when your eyes his mute agony met, ' I'll be blanked if I'll stand this 1 I'll hunt a week yet 1' Poor Davis crept round till he got by your side, Caught hold of your hand like a baby, and cried. A picture of grateful, incompetent woe— (* Iwas rather dramatic, as incidents go ;) Then we all of us yelled, in' a magnetised cry, An absurd proposition to find him, or die. It was only an hour and a quarter from then Your wing-shout came skurrying o'er woodland and glen, As if to go round the whole world it would strive, ' I've found the young blank, an' he's hero and ftlivo 1' Your voice had, as usual, less music than might, But you led a remarkable chorus that night ; , An anthem of joy swelled from many a throat, > And you, as our chorister, gave the first note. When your hand was near squeezed out of shape by your mates, , ' ; None shook it more warmly than Abraham Bates ; Who, suggesting (to you) an impossible thing, . Shouted, ' Down, up 1 down, up ! Sing 1* Little Clarissa Smith 1 how you thrilled through us all, When you made that young soul-sweetened voice rise and fall! The whippoorwill's voice is sweet-spoken and true, But not with a heart and a spirit like you ; | The lark trails the music of earth through the skies, But the flame of her song does not flash from her eyes ! Our girl prima donna!— Your fame wai not spread, i Nor by world-wide applauses your vanity fed ; { But you Btar with a grand brilliant company, now : The laurels of heaven have encircled your brow.. 'Twas a dreary procession you led on that day When so still in the old-fashioned coffin you lay ; No delicate casket, grief-laden with care, And trimmed with exotics expensive and rare, Had ever more tears on its occupant shed Than you, in your old-fashioned coffin of red. 'Twas strange how the unstudied wiles of your art Had soothed and delighted the average heart ; How much of heaven's glory had glittered and smiled Through the cultureless voice of an innocent child. You looked very pretty, and half -saucy, there With natural flowers in your girlish-combtd hair ; And a little old half-worn-out book on your breast, Containing the hymns that you used to sing best. The roughest old villain that lived in our town Stood back from the grave, and, with head hanging down, Was heard, in a reverent whisper, to say, * Heaven needed that voice, and God took it away.' And Abraham Bates, who, 'twas general belief, Had never before given rein to a grief, Felt sorrow sweep o'er his heart like a storm, When it came, as it were, in a musical form ; And choked down and sobbed, with eyes filled to the brim, While attempting to lead in the funeral hymn. And long when the sound of that sorrow hod waned, In his rough old heart.caverns its echo remained ; And audible tears to t he surface would spring, Of that • Down, left, up ! down, left, up 1 Bing 1' Mrs Caroline Dean, how you revelled in song T There was no singing-school to which you didn't belong, Save in »ome locality far away, so That you and your meek little husband couldn't go. What a method was yours, of appearing prepared To make every tune in the note-book look scared t Your voice was voluminous, rather than rich, And not predistinguished for accurate pitch ; But you seemed every word to o'erpoweringly feel, And humbled and drove away skill with your zeal. The villain referred to above, on the day That you and your larynx were safe stowed away, Didn't make the remark he was credited with At the time of the burial of Clarissa Smith, But muttered, as low with himself he communed, ' I suppose she will do, when they get her retuned.' Though the strains of the choir sounded weak and afraid Without your soprano's stentorian aid, Mr Abraham Bates, if I was not deceived. Worked lighter in harness, and acted relieved ; And when the hymn stated you 'lovely and mild,' And 'as summer breeze gentle ' he very near smiled ; For those who had learned his biogiaphy, knew He had rather encounter a tempest than you, When he dared, with a placating, angular smile, To venture a hint on your musical style. You remember how promptly ho wilted, among The tropical rays of your scorn-blazing tongue ; For your talents you easily turned when you chose, From fancy-gemmed song into plain business proso. You knew how to make him as miserably meek As a tin peddler's horse at the close of the- week. You knew how to make a msst despot ato thing That ' Down, left, right, up ! Sing !' Sweet hymn tunes of old ! —You had blood in your hearts, That pulsed glowing life through yeur several parts : From bass to soprano it surgingly climber!, As grandly the chords of your melo'ly chimed ! ' Coronation ' that brought royal splendours in view, And solemn ' Old Hundred,' invariably new — That golden sledge-hammer, of ponderous grace, That drove every word like a wedge to its place ; ' Balerma,' of melody full to the brim, And ' Pleyel'* * grandly plaintive melodious hymn ; With others, that memory's ear loves to meet, Which, With different names, might have sounded less sweet. Then with what a cloud concatenation of sounds *'Farra Festivals,' by Will Oarleton, author of 'Farm Ballads,' 'Farm Legends/ &o, Balhntyne ftAUBon, and Co., Edinburgh and London.

We rharged in our might on tho gloesand the rounds! There was nothing, though polished, or harsh and un-

kempt, That we had not courace enough to attempt ; And if tunes, when suggestion of murder arrive?, Were not gifted, like cais, with a number of lives, There's many a living and healthy old strain, _ We'd have sent long ago to repose with the slain. O strong Winter nights ! when all earth wai aglow With crystal stars dancing on meadows of snow ; When the blade of youth, hilted with pleasured gold

wreath, Flashed out of its home like a sword from a sheath, And advanced o'er tho plains and the hill-tops, to dare The quick-cutting edge of the frost-tempered air. How through foaming drifts we careened to and fro, And tossed the white waves with our ship of tho snow, Which fluttered for back, as we sailed swift along. A streamer of rich elementary song Oh, tall, queenly nights 1 to eternity's gaze You have followed your short littlo husbands of days But jewelled and braided with youth-freshened strains, Your memory-ghosts walk the hills and the plains. Not one of life's glittering subsequent n'ghts, With feverish pleasures and costly delights, On treasure-fringed harbours and sail-whi'ened bays, Not nights lit with faehion'ti cold, variable blaze, Not when the gay opera's beauty-sown song Plants passion's red flowers in the hearts of the throng ; No nights, drossed in splendour and carried with

grace, Old brave Winter nights* can e'er stand in your place; Till the long one of doatn may perhaps bring ub nigh To the star-lighted singing-school heid in the sky.