There was a player of the horn who made it so euphonious
That every creature ever born was drawn to hear him play,
Until one sad, hung-over morn, its noise was deemed felonious
And all his beer-braised friends, forlorn, plugged ears and ran away.
The sweet euphonium was heard no more in that green-wooded land–
The deer and nightingale ne’er stirred, and Prost! rang out no more–
His fellow players, quite deterred, closed up their merry oompah band
Like some cage-covered myna bird, and silent, hid full sore.
What have we learned from this sad tale, so stricken, deleterious
And dark as Death’s bleak lowest vale, wherein musick’s so frowned
Upon the hornist sought a gale of storm and rain delirious
And in the deluge, shaking, pale, turn up his horn and drowned?
The moral, though you might just miss it, e’er so hard ye strive to think:
‘Tis sadder to have died like this than surfeited of hoppy drink.
So, prithee, play all on your trumpets, flutes, euphoniums–be not shy–