Christopher Pearse Cranch

“ To hear his horn stutter and stammer to utter
Its various abortions of badness.
At his wide open window he stands,
Overlooking his bit of a garden;
One can see the great ass at one end of his brass
Blaring out, never asking your pardon:
This terrible blurting he thinks is not hurting,
As long as his own ear-drums harden.
He thinks, I've no doubt, it is sweet,
While thus Time and Tune he is flaying;
The little house-sparrows feel all through their marrows
The jar and the fuss of his playing,--
The windows all shaking, the babies all waking,
The very dogs howling and baying. ”