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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, October 11, 1890 by Various
page 6 of 44 (13%)
I've no skill of brush and palette like those unforgotten men;
My Cecilia must content herself with an unworthy pen.

Fairy fingers flash before me as the bow sweeps o'er each string;
Like the organ's _vox humana_, Hark! the instrument can sing.

That _sonata_ of TARTINI's in my ears will linger long;
It might be some _prima donna_ scaling all the heights of song.

Every string a different language speaks beneath her skilful sway.
Does the shade of PAGANINI hover over her to-day?

All can feel the passion throbbing through the music fraught with pain:
Then, with feminine mutation, comes a soft and tender strain.

Gracious curve of neck, and fiddle tucked 'neath that entrancing chin--
Fain with you would I change places, O thrice happy violin!

* * * * *


[Illustration: THE TOURNEY.

["Golf is superseding Lawn-Tennis."--_Daily Paper_.]]

The Champions are mounted, a wonderful pair,
And the boldest who sees them must e'en hold his breath.
Their breastplates and greaves glitter bright in the air;
They have sworn ere they met they would fight to the death.
And the heart of the Queen of the Tournament sinks
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