Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 99, October 11, 1890 by Various
page 6 of 44 (13%)
page 6 of 44 (13%)
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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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