Xxvi

Ah, rogues, but my housemaid suspects you-- Is confident oft she detects you In bringing more filth into my house Than ever you found there! I 'm pious, However: 't was God made you dingy And me--with no need to be stingy Of soap, when 't is sixpence the packet. So, dance away, boys, dust my jacket, Bang drum and blow fife--ay, and rattle Your brushes, for that 's half the battle! Don't trample the grass,--hocus-pocus With grime my Spring snowdrop and crocus,-- And, what with your rattling and tinkling, Who knows but you give me an inkling How music sounds, thanks to the jangle Of regular drum and triangle? Whereby, tap-tap, chink-chink, 't is proven I break rule as bad as Beethoven. "That chord now--a groan or a grunt is 't? Schumann's self was no worse contrapuntist. No ear! or if ear, so tough-gristled-- He thought that he sung while he whistled!"