How blythe the swains on May-Day morn
As through the streets they hop
Of ancient pastimes think with scorn
And hie to Birchall’s shop.
But not on music’s sweetest sound
One single thought they drop,
Those powerful charms are to be found
In Birchall’s music shop!
A siren there directs their eyes
And bids them kindly stop
With pity, hear her mournful sighs!
Resound through Birchall’s shop.
Each beau advancing full of glee
Of fun expects a crop
But music only can they see
Display’d in Birchall’s shop.
Birchall amazed! stands wond’ring by
Whilst belles around him pop
Enuiring for “the soft blue eye”
Not known in Birchall’s shop.
At length a maid with sable plume
And form much like a mop
With ’kerchief white to cheer the gloom
Advanc’d through Birchall’s shop.
On each bold youth she turns her eyes —
But mournfully they drop
The blue-eyed chief, for whom she sighs
Is not in Birchall’s shop.
In vain appointments has she made!
Advertisements has written
The swain she seeks does all evade
He’s not with passion smitten!
Her ’kerchief white to tatters torn
With waving to and fro
Was ever damsel so forlorn
O! whither shall she go?
Music has charms to melt no more!