The Music-Grinders


The Music-Grinders was retrieved from the anthology, The Humour of America (1909).
HERE are three ways in which men take
One’s money from his purse,
And very hard it is to tell
Which of the three is worse;
But all of them are bad enough
To make a body curse.

You’re riding out some pleasant day,
And counting up your gains;
A fellow jumps from out a bush,
And takes your horse’s reins,
Another hints some words about
A bullet in your brains.

It’s hard to meet such pressing friends,
In such a lonely spot;
It’s very hard to lose your cash,
But harder to be shot;
And so you take your wallet out,
Though you would rather not.

Perhaps you’re going out to dine,—
Some odious creature begs
You’ll hear about the cannon-ball
That carried off his pegs,
And says it is a dreadful thing
For men to lose their legs.

He tells you of his starving wife,
His children to be fed,
Poor little lovely innocents,
All clamorous for bread,—
And so you kindly help to put
A bachelor to bed.

You’re sitting on your window-seat,
Beneath a cloudless moon;
Your hear a sound that seems to wear
The semblance of a tune,
As if a broken fife should strive
To drown a cracked bassoon.

And nearer, nearer still, the tide
Of music seems to come;
There’s something like a human voice,
And something like a drum;
You sit in speechless agony,
Until your ear is numb.

Poor “Home, sweet home” should seem to be
A very dismal place;
Your “Auld Acquaintance” all at once
Is altered in the face;
Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,
Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

You think they are crusaders, sent
From some infernal clime,
To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
And dock the tail of Rhyme,
To crack the voice of Melody,
And break the legs of Time.

But hark! the air again is still,
The music all is ground,
And silence, like a poultice, comes
To heal the blows of sound;
It cannot be,—it is,—it is,—
A hat is going round!

No! pay the dentist when he leaves
A fracture in your jaw,
And pay the owner of the bear
That stunned you with his paw,
And buy the lobster that has had
Your knuckles in his claw;

But, if you are a portly man,
Put on your fiercest frown,
And talk about a constable
To turn them out of town;
Then close your sentence with an oath,
And shut the window down!

And, if you are a slender man,
Not big enough for that,
Or if you cannot make a speech
Because you are a flat,
Go very quietly and drop
A button in the hat!


facebook share button twitter share button reddit share button share on pinterest pinterest

Add The Music-Grinders to your library.

Return to the Oliver Wendell Holmes library , or . . . Read the next poem; The September Gale

© 2022