WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART

[Born in Salzburg, Austria—1756-1791.]

Mozart, "The Glorious Boy", Rubenstein named him well,Was born with the gift of music, on him the mantel fellOf many great composers, who justly won a name,Though Mozart soared above them on pinnacles of fame.When as a tiny kiddie with birthdays not yet fiveHe played his little violin as if it were alive,Composing wondrous music which was so grand and sweetThat even queens and princes would fall down at his feet.His music flowed as easily as waters in a brook,And sparkled as bright sunbeams peeping in a nook.An opera he finished before his thirteenth yearAnd when he was but fourteen musicians came to hearLa Scala, greatest orchestra, which the world then had,As it was well directed by this inspired lad.The Pope conferred upon him the order "Golden Spur."Until he reached his sixteenth year nothing did deterThis clever lad from mounting to highest realms of fame,Flowers rained upon him and life seemed but a game.And then came years of suffering when through Envy's stingsAnd malice of musicians, who wished to clip his wings,He saw the dark and dreary and rocky road of lifeAnd soon he grew awearied of sickness, hunger, strifeAnd discontent within his home, for Constance whom he wed,Was ever cross and ailing and spent her days in bed.And though he was still youthful, not more than thirty-five,When most of earthly children are glad to be alive,Poor Mozart, worn by constant work and worried by his wife,One dreary, dark December day to Death gave up his life.This great soul's earthly castle not one friend tried to saveFrom an ignoble burial within a pauper's grave;And no one put a marker to show where it was laid,But the glory of great Mozart's works will never, never fade.

Mozart, "The Glorious Boy", Rubenstein named him well,

Was born with the gift of music, on him the mantel fell

Of many great composers, who justly won a name,

Though Mozart soared above them on pinnacles of fame.

When as a tiny kiddie with birthdays not yet five

He played his little violin as if it were alive,

Composing wondrous music which was so grand and sweet

That even queens and princes would fall down at his feet.

His music flowed as easily as waters in a brook,

And sparkled as bright sunbeams peeping in a nook.

An opera he finished before his thirteenth year

And when he was but fourteen musicians came to hear

La Scala, greatest orchestra, which the world then had,

As it was well directed by this inspired lad.

The Pope conferred upon him the order "Golden Spur."

Until he reached his sixteenth year nothing did deter

This clever lad from mounting to highest realms of fame,

Flowers rained upon him and life seemed but a game.

And then came years of suffering when through Envy's stings

And malice of musicians, who wished to clip his wings,

He saw the dark and dreary and rocky road of life

And soon he grew awearied of sickness, hunger, strife

And discontent within his home, for Constance whom he wed,

Was ever cross and ailing and spent her days in bed.

And though he was still youthful, not more than thirty-five,

When most of earthly children are glad to be alive,

Poor Mozart, worn by constant work and worried by his wife,

One dreary, dark December day to Death gave up his life.

This great soul's earthly castle not one friend tried to save

From an ignoble burial within a pauper's grave;

And no one put a marker to show where it was laid,

But the glory of great Mozart's works will never, never fade.

WILHELM RICHARD WAGNER

[Born in Leipsic, Germany—1813-1883.]

In the midst of tumult and mixed up with strifeThe world renowned great Wagner spent most all his life.All around his birthplace the day that he was bornMany thousand soldiers lay bleeding, cut and tornBy the fiendish war god, who delights to slay.And after him came "Pestilence," who bore with her awayThe father of young Wagner, and as his mother hadSeven other children no wonder that this ladShould grow up just like Topsy without a guiding hand,With no one to direct his steps and no one to command.Then Fever wracked his body and he was very ill,But fairies came to comfort, sweet music to instilInto his wondrous fingers and in his kindly heart,Henceforth of all his life work to take the biggest part;Although in spite of music in rebel plans he mixed,And exile to Herr Wagner's name for long years was affixed.Twice he sailed on Hymen's sea, and I have heard it saidHis first wife, Wilhelmina, proposed that he should wed.With her he knew no happiness in all his married life,For she was ever brewing the noxious stew of strife.But when Liszt's lovely daughter, the fair Casima, came,She filled his home with joy and also brought him fame.From her sweet inspiration his greatest work was made,The soul inspiringParsifal, whose fame will never fade.Death took him from the arms of his adoring wife.He passed away so peacefully, but left behind him strifeConcerning the real merit of all he ever wrote.Some class him with divinities, some put him with the goat;Some love his mimic thunder and sighing of the breeze,While others say his music is but a bang and wheeze.

In the midst of tumult and mixed up with strife

The world renowned great Wagner spent most all his life.

All around his birthplace the day that he was born

Many thousand soldiers lay bleeding, cut and torn

By the fiendish war god, who delights to slay.

And after him came "Pestilence," who bore with her away

The father of young Wagner, and as his mother had

Seven other children no wonder that this lad

Should grow up just like Topsy without a guiding hand,

With no one to direct his steps and no one to command.

Then Fever wracked his body and he was very ill,But fairies came to comfort, sweet music to instilInto his wondrous fingers and in his kindly heart,Henceforth of all his life work to take the biggest part;Although in spite of music in rebel plans he mixed,And exile to Herr Wagner's name for long years was affixed.

Then Fever wracked his body and he was very ill,

But fairies came to comfort, sweet music to instil

Into his wondrous fingers and in his kindly heart,

Henceforth of all his life work to take the biggest part;

Although in spite of music in rebel plans he mixed,

And exile to Herr Wagner's name for long years was affixed.

Twice he sailed on Hymen's sea, and I have heard it saidHis first wife, Wilhelmina, proposed that he should wed.With her he knew no happiness in all his married life,For she was ever brewing the noxious stew of strife.But when Liszt's lovely daughter, the fair Casima, came,She filled his home with joy and also brought him fame.From her sweet inspiration his greatest work was made,The soul inspiringParsifal, whose fame will never fade.

Twice he sailed on Hymen's sea, and I have heard it said

His first wife, Wilhelmina, proposed that he should wed.

With her he knew no happiness in all his married life,

For she was ever brewing the noxious stew of strife.

But when Liszt's lovely daughter, the fair Casima, came,

She filled his home with joy and also brought him fame.

From her sweet inspiration his greatest work was made,

The soul inspiringParsifal, whose fame will never fade.

Death took him from the arms of his adoring wife.He passed away so peacefully, but left behind him strifeConcerning the real merit of all he ever wrote.Some class him with divinities, some put him with the goat;Some love his mimic thunder and sighing of the breeze,While others say his music is but a bang and wheeze.

Death took him from the arms of his adoring wife.

He passed away so peacefully, but left behind him strife

Concerning the real merit of all he ever wrote.

Some class him with divinities, some put him with the goat;

Some love his mimic thunder and sighing of the breeze,

While others say his music is but a bang and wheeze.

FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT

[Born in Vienna, Austria—1797-1828.]

A poor schoolmaster was his pa,A common cook his scolding ma,Who was not one bit glad to seeHer thirteenth child a boy wee,Who came one blustering wintry dayWithin her crowded house to stay.Though Franz was cold and hungry tooThe Music Sprites his soul would wooAnd oft he wrote as in a tranceSome lovely song in which perchanceThe singer seemed as blithe could beAnd filled with joyful ecstasy.He loved a maid of high degreeWith whom he could not married beAnd while for this maid CarolineHis beating heart with love did pineIn one short year this song bird wroteTwo symphonies in every note,Five operas and many moreAirs that stamp of genius bore,One hundred thirty-seven songsDepicting hopes, and joys and wrongs.Of these immortal songs 'tis saidSix were sold for a loaf of bread.Full ten great symphonies he madeBut no one to them honor paidWhile he was yet upon this earth,And never courted by True Mirth,But ever hungry, weak and illThough working with his great soul's willUntil the age of thirty-oneWhen Death said "Rest, your work is done."

A poor schoolmaster was his pa,A common cook his scolding ma,Who was not one bit glad to seeHer thirteenth child a boy wee,Who came one blustering wintry dayWithin her crowded house to stay.

A poor schoolmaster was his pa,

A common cook his scolding ma,

Who was not one bit glad to see

Her thirteenth child a boy wee,

Who came one blustering wintry day

Within her crowded house to stay.

Though Franz was cold and hungry tooThe Music Sprites his soul would wooAnd oft he wrote as in a tranceSome lovely song in which perchanceThe singer seemed as blithe could beAnd filled with joyful ecstasy.

Though Franz was cold and hungry too

The Music Sprites his soul would woo

And oft he wrote as in a trance

Some lovely song in which perchance

The singer seemed as blithe could be

And filled with joyful ecstasy.

He loved a maid of high degreeWith whom he could not married beAnd while for this maid CarolineHis beating heart with love did pineIn one short year this song bird wroteTwo symphonies in every note,

He loved a maid of high degree

With whom he could not married be

And while for this maid Caroline

His beating heart with love did pine

In one short year this song bird wrote

Two symphonies in every note,

Five operas and many moreAirs that stamp of genius bore,One hundred thirty-seven songsDepicting hopes, and joys and wrongs.Of these immortal songs 'tis saidSix were sold for a loaf of bread.

Five operas and many more

Airs that stamp of genius bore,

One hundred thirty-seven songs

Depicting hopes, and joys and wrongs.

Of these immortal songs 'tis said

Six were sold for a loaf of bread.

Full ten great symphonies he madeBut no one to them honor paidWhile he was yet upon this earth,And never courted by True Mirth,But ever hungry, weak and illThough working with his great soul's willUntil the age of thirty-oneWhen Death said "Rest, your work is done."

Full ten great symphonies he made

But no one to them honor paid

While he was yet upon this earth,

And never courted by True Mirth,

But ever hungry, weak and ill

Though working with his great soul's will

Until the age of thirty-one

When Death said "Rest, your work is done."

ROBERT SCHUMANN

[Born in Zwickau, Germany—1810-1856.]

To most great music makersThe fates have been unkindAnd in the life of SchumannFew joys we can findExcept in the great loveOf Clara, his dear wife,Who helped him in his strugglesThroughout his married life.He lost the power of playingThrough dread paralysis.But Clara said, "Don't worryFor nothing you need missSince you can write sweet lovely airsAnd I'll play them for youAnd thus we two togetherThe Music Muse can woo."One hundred songs and thirty-eightHe wrote in one short year,Inspired by his loving wifeWho brought him hope and cheer.And when he died at forty-sixAnd left her very poorWith her eight children Clara wentUpon a concert tour.And with her wondrous playingOf airs her husband madeShe earned her bread and butterAnd glory ne'er to fade,For Schumann's magic musicAnd songs that reach the heart,Showing they are temperedWith great Apollo's art.

To most great music makers

The fates have been unkind

And in the life of Schumann

Few joys we can find

Except in the great love

Of Clara, his dear wife,

Who helped him in his struggles

Throughout his married life.

He lost the power of playingThrough dread paralysis.But Clara said, "Don't worryFor nothing you need missSince you can write sweet lovely airsAnd I'll play them for youAnd thus we two togetherThe Music Muse can woo."

He lost the power of playing

Through dread paralysis.

But Clara said, "Don't worry

For nothing you need miss

Since you can write sweet lovely airs

And I'll play them for you

And thus we two together

The Music Muse can woo."

One hundred songs and thirty-eightHe wrote in one short year,Inspired by his loving wifeWho brought him hope and cheer.And when he died at forty-sixAnd left her very poorWith her eight children Clara wentUpon a concert tour.

One hundred songs and thirty-eight

He wrote in one short year,

Inspired by his loving wife

Who brought him hope and cheer.

And when he died at forty-six

And left her very poor

With her eight children Clara went

Upon a concert tour.

And with her wondrous playingOf airs her husband madeShe earned her bread and butterAnd glory ne'er to fade,For Schumann's magic musicAnd songs that reach the heart,Showing they are temperedWith great Apollo's art.

And with her wondrous playing

Of airs her husband made

She earned her bread and butter

And glory ne'er to fade,

For Schumann's magic music

And songs that reach the heart,

Showing they are tempered

With great Apollo's art.

GIUSEPPE VERDI

[Born in Duchy of Parma, Italy—1813-1901.]

The life of Verdi reads as wellAs any fairy tale;To interest a girl or boyI'm sure it could not fail.The stork brought him to Mother EarthIn time of dreadful strife.Hid in an ancient church belfryHis mother saved his life.And in this church which sheltered himFrom cruel blood-thirsty menHe played as the church organistWhen he was only ten.The imps of evil troubled himBut fairies came alongTo help him in his sorrowsAnd fill his heart with song.Like the proverbial mother catNine lives he seemed to haveAnd for each injury receivedThere always was some salve.Into the water once he fellAnd down he went times threeThen some one rescued this young ladAs if by Fate's decree.The poor child yearned for music landAnd also longed for bread.And for a girdle round his waistHe often wore, 'tis said,A bit of rope which he pulled tautWhen hunger did assail.And yet this lad all poorly cladAnd weak and wan and paleForgot his hunger and his wantsWhen Music's tones he heardIn rippling of the waters bright,In songs of every bird.Close to the fence of a rich manWhose daughter played each nightVerdi when only six years oldWould listen with delight.This hungry lad prayed often thereThat some day he might ownA lovely spinet in whose keysWere fairies' magic tones.One night while it was raining hardO'er the high fence he crawledOf an Italian wealthy man,Signor Barezzi called.He heard the daughter sweetly playA grand Beethoven airAnd while he lay enraptured thereA coachman found his lairAnd beat the poor starved youngster whomHe called a "dirty thief,"And drove him from the music's reachDespite the poor child's grief.But on the next night Verdi wentThough filled with quaking fearAnd crawled again beneath the fenceSweet music there to hear.And here Barezzi found the ladAs by the fence he layAnd took the boy into his homeTo hear his daughter play.He took an interest in this childAnd placed him in a schoolWhere he could learn of musicEach necessary rule.But disappointed he becameWhen all the teachers saidThis boy who plays so queerlyWill never rank ahead;As a musician of true worthHe cannot hold his ownAnd in Apollo's circleHe never will be known.And so discouraged, this poor ladBecame a grocer boyThough every night he practised hard—This was his only joy.And then quite foolishly alasThe grocer's daughter wedAnd two small children came to him;For them there was no bread,And his young wife and children tooFrom dreadful hunger diedJust when his first great operaMost loudly was decriedAnd he himself hissed off the stage.No wonder that he thoughtThis life for him with sorrow's faceForever would be fraught,And it were better now to crossThe Border-Land's dark pathThrough Suicide's short awful routeThan live 'neath dark Fate's wrath.But after two sad dreary yearsOf darkness and despairHis operas succeededAnd life seemed much more fair.He married a good second wifeAnd wealthy he became;Legion of Honor given himWas added to his fame.In the Italian parliamentVerdi received a seatAnd many other honors greatWere cast down at his feet.While hisIl TrovatoregreatWhen first 'twas sung in RomeBecame so very popular'Twas heard in every home,And e'en to-day in every landThis opera is playedAnd glory for its authorWill never, never fade.The name Giuseppe VerdiStands for composer greatAnd one whose heart was ever filledWith love instead of hate.But one bad fault this genius hadOf flying into fits,And in great anger once he brokeA spinet into bits.And when he taught his pupilsHe often boxed their ears,So of the music masterTheir hearts were filled with fears.But he was always good and kindTo all the poor and weak,And to help his fellow menHe would ever seek.And when his works brought fame and wealthBarezzi's house he bought,Tore down the fence and made the groundsInto a music lot.And there this benefactorInvited one and allTo come on every pleasant nightAnd hear Apollo's call.

The life of Verdi reads as well

As any fairy tale;

To interest a girl or boy

I'm sure it could not fail.

The stork brought him to Mother Earth

In time of dreadful strife.

Hid in an ancient church belfry

His mother saved his life.

And in this church which sheltered him

From cruel blood-thirsty men

He played as the church organist

When he was only ten.

The imps of evil troubled him

But fairies came along

To help him in his sorrows

And fill his heart with song.

Like the proverbial mother catNine lives he seemed to haveAnd for each injury receivedThere always was some salve.Into the water once he fellAnd down he went times threeThen some one rescued this young ladAs if by Fate's decree.

Like the proverbial mother cat

Nine lives he seemed to have

And for each injury received

There always was some salve.

Into the water once he fell

And down he went times three

Then some one rescued this young lad

As if by Fate's decree.

The poor child yearned for music landAnd also longed for bread.And for a girdle round his waistHe often wore, 'tis said,A bit of rope which he pulled tautWhen hunger did assail.And yet this lad all poorly cladAnd weak and wan and paleForgot his hunger and his wantsWhen Music's tones he heardIn rippling of the waters bright,In songs of every bird.

The poor child yearned for music land

And also longed for bread.

And for a girdle round his waist

He often wore, 'tis said,

A bit of rope which he pulled taut

When hunger did assail.

And yet this lad all poorly clad

And weak and wan and pale

Forgot his hunger and his wants

When Music's tones he heard

In rippling of the waters bright,

In songs of every bird.

Close to the fence of a rich manWhose daughter played each nightVerdi when only six years oldWould listen with delight.This hungry lad prayed often thereThat some day he might ownA lovely spinet in whose keysWere fairies' magic tones.

Close to the fence of a rich man

Whose daughter played each night

Verdi when only six years old

Would listen with delight.

This hungry lad prayed often there

That some day he might own

A lovely spinet in whose keys

Were fairies' magic tones.

One night while it was raining hardO'er the high fence he crawledOf an Italian wealthy man,Signor Barezzi called.He heard the daughter sweetly playA grand Beethoven airAnd while he lay enraptured thereA coachman found his lairAnd beat the poor starved youngster whomHe called a "dirty thief,"And drove him from the music's reachDespite the poor child's grief.

One night while it was raining hard

O'er the high fence he crawled

Of an Italian wealthy man,

Signor Barezzi called.

He heard the daughter sweetly play

A grand Beethoven air

And while he lay enraptured there

A coachman found his lair

And beat the poor starved youngster whom

He called a "dirty thief,"

And drove him from the music's reach

Despite the poor child's grief.

But on the next night Verdi wentThough filled with quaking fearAnd crawled again beneath the fenceSweet music there to hear.And here Barezzi found the ladAs by the fence he layAnd took the boy into his homeTo hear his daughter play.

But on the next night Verdi went

Though filled with quaking fear

And crawled again beneath the fence

Sweet music there to hear.

And here Barezzi found the lad

As by the fence he lay

And took the boy into his home

To hear his daughter play.

He took an interest in this childAnd placed him in a schoolWhere he could learn of musicEach necessary rule.But disappointed he becameWhen all the teachers saidThis boy who plays so queerlyWill never rank ahead;As a musician of true worthHe cannot hold his ownAnd in Apollo's circleHe never will be known.

He took an interest in this child

And placed him in a school

Where he could learn of music

Each necessary rule.

But disappointed he became

When all the teachers said

This boy who plays so queerly

Will never rank ahead;

As a musician of true worth

He cannot hold his own

And in Apollo's circle

He never will be known.

And so discouraged, this poor ladBecame a grocer boyThough every night he practised hard—This was his only joy.And then quite foolishly alasThe grocer's daughter wedAnd two small children came to him;For them there was no bread,And his young wife and children tooFrom dreadful hunger diedJust when his first great operaMost loudly was decriedAnd he himself hissed off the stage.No wonder that he thoughtThis life for him with sorrow's faceForever would be fraught,And it were better now to crossThe Border-Land's dark pathThrough Suicide's short awful routeThan live 'neath dark Fate's wrath.

And so discouraged, this poor lad

Became a grocer boy

Though every night he practised hard—

This was his only joy.

And then quite foolishly alas

The grocer's daughter wed

And two small children came to him;

For them there was no bread,

And his young wife and children too

From dreadful hunger died

Just when his first great opera

Most loudly was decried

And he himself hissed off the stage.

No wonder that he thought

This life for him with sorrow's face

Forever would be fraught,

And it were better now to cross

The Border-Land's dark path

Through Suicide's short awful route

Than live 'neath dark Fate's wrath.

But after two sad dreary yearsOf darkness and despairHis operas succeededAnd life seemed much more fair.He married a good second wifeAnd wealthy he became;Legion of Honor given himWas added to his fame.In the Italian parliamentVerdi received a seatAnd many other honors greatWere cast down at his feet.While hisIl TrovatoregreatWhen first 'twas sung in RomeBecame so very popular'Twas heard in every home,And e'en to-day in every landThis opera is playedAnd glory for its authorWill never, never fade.

But after two sad dreary years

Of darkness and despair

His operas succeeded

And life seemed much more fair.

He married a good second wife

And wealthy he became;

Legion of Honor given him

Was added to his fame.

In the Italian parliament

Verdi received a seat

And many other honors great

Were cast down at his feet.

While hisIl Trovatoregreat

When first 'twas sung in Rome

Became so very popular

'Twas heard in every home,

And e'en to-day in every land

This opera is played

And glory for its author

Will never, never fade.

The name Giuseppe VerdiStands for composer greatAnd one whose heart was ever filledWith love instead of hate.But one bad fault this genius hadOf flying into fits,And in great anger once he brokeA spinet into bits.And when he taught his pupilsHe often boxed their ears,So of the music masterTheir hearts were filled with fears.

The name Giuseppe Verdi

Stands for composer great

And one whose heart was ever filled

With love instead of hate.

But one bad fault this genius had

Of flying into fits,

And in great anger once he broke

A spinet into bits.

And when he taught his pupils

He often boxed their ears,

So of the music master

Their hearts were filled with fears.

But he was always good and kindTo all the poor and weak,And to help his fellow menHe would ever seek.And when his works brought fame and wealthBarezzi's house he bought,Tore down the fence and made the groundsInto a music lot.And there this benefactorInvited one and allTo come on every pleasant nightAnd hear Apollo's call.

But he was always good and kind

To all the poor and weak,

And to help his fellow men

He would ever seek.

And when his works brought fame and wealth

Barezzi's house he bought,

Tore down the fence and made the grounds

Into a music lot.

And there this benefactor

Invited one and all

To come on every pleasant night

And hear Apollo's call.

FRANZ LISZT

[Born in Raiding, Hungary—1811-1886.]

Like Goddess Minerva so it is saidLiszt sprang fully armed from Jupiter's head.Master of every silvery noteOf the hum of the bee or the human throat.Ere he was nine, on the ladder of fameHe climbed, never stumbling and never once lame,Until he had reached the rung at the topWhen Death interfered with "Time now to stop."Wealth flowed to this genius from his symphoniesHis teachings, his concerts, and grand rhapsodies.And as he went lauded on many a tourHe scattered his money to those who were poor.Neat in his dress and with manners politeCourting sweet friendship, avoiding a fight,This great man was loved by one and by all,The rich and the poor and the great and the small.

Like Goddess Minerva so it is saidLiszt sprang fully armed from Jupiter's head.Master of every silvery noteOf the hum of the bee or the human throat.

Like Goddess Minerva so it is said

Liszt sprang fully armed from Jupiter's head.

Master of every silvery note

Of the hum of the bee or the human throat.

Ere he was nine, on the ladder of fameHe climbed, never stumbling and never once lame,Until he had reached the rung at the topWhen Death interfered with "Time now to stop."

Ere he was nine, on the ladder of fame

He climbed, never stumbling and never once lame,

Until he had reached the rung at the top

When Death interfered with "Time now to stop."

Wealth flowed to this genius from his symphoniesHis teachings, his concerts, and grand rhapsodies.And as he went lauded on many a tourHe scattered his money to those who were poor.

Wealth flowed to this genius from his symphonies

His teachings, his concerts, and grand rhapsodies.

And as he went lauded on many a tour

He scattered his money to those who were poor.

Neat in his dress and with manners politeCourting sweet friendship, avoiding a fight,This great man was loved by one and by all,The rich and the poor and the great and the small.

Neat in his dress and with manners polite

Courting sweet friendship, avoiding a fight,

This great man was loved by one and by all,

The rich and the poor and the great and the small.

ANTON RUBINSTEIN

[Born in Volhynia, Russia—1829-1894.]

When precious gifts gods give to men,A great price they require,As we have seen in all the livesOf those they did inspireWith Music's wondrous magic charmThat all true men adoreBe they of wild and savage stateOr wise men full of lore.And so with Anton RubinsteinWho many sorrows hadNot only when to manhood grownBut when he was a lad.His parents were of Jewish birthThough Christians they becameWhen cruelly persecutedAlas! in Christ's good name.His mother gave unto her boysIn music their first start,And trained their minds to travelIn realms of Music-Art.And later on she took her sonsTo Paris, there to learnTo bring forth the great musicWhich in their souls did burn.When but a very little chapAnton wrote wondrous songsDescribing joys and sorrowsAnd depicting wrongs,Which when he played in publicMade all his hearers sigh,Laugh aloud or clap their handsAnd sometimes even cry.Young Nicholas, his brother,Composed almost as wellFor both these music loversHad touched Apollo's shell.But white plague took poor NicholasEre he could finish quiteThe songs the fairies whisperedOft in the stilly night.While Anton worked for many a yearAnd on the ladder FAMEAs a sensation playerSecurely placed his name.To every realm of musicSome work this master gaveAnd o'er hisOcean SymphonyAll of the nations rave.But all his thoughts were not of love,And Liszt and Wagner airsWere classed by him as discordsNot fit for country fairs.He hated also our good land,Though when upon our shoreHe gathered in the golden streamsAnd held his hand for more.He traveled in most every land,Was steeped in music lore,And his great songs in numberWill almost make eight score.But he was never happyAs in his heart was "Hate,"Which shut out Fairy HappinessAll mortals' proper mate.

When precious gifts gods give to men,

A great price they require,

As we have seen in all the lives

Of those they did inspire

With Music's wondrous magic charm

That all true men adore

Be they of wild and savage state

Or wise men full of lore.

And so with Anton Rubinstein

Who many sorrows had

Not only when to manhood grown

But when he was a lad.

His parents were of Jewish birthThough Christians they becameWhen cruelly persecutedAlas! in Christ's good name.His mother gave unto her boysIn music their first start,And trained their minds to travelIn realms of Music-Art.And later on she took her sonsTo Paris, there to learnTo bring forth the great musicWhich in their souls did burn.

His parents were of Jewish birth

Though Christians they became

When cruelly persecuted

Alas! in Christ's good name.

His mother gave unto her boys

In music their first start,

And trained their minds to travel

In realms of Music-Art.

And later on she took her sons

To Paris, there to learn

To bring forth the great music

Which in their souls did burn.

When but a very little chapAnton wrote wondrous songsDescribing joys and sorrowsAnd depicting wrongs,Which when he played in publicMade all his hearers sigh,Laugh aloud or clap their handsAnd sometimes even cry.

When but a very little chap

Anton wrote wondrous songs

Describing joys and sorrows

And depicting wrongs,

Which when he played in public

Made all his hearers sigh,

Laugh aloud or clap their hands

And sometimes even cry.

Young Nicholas, his brother,Composed almost as wellFor both these music loversHad touched Apollo's shell.But white plague took poor NicholasEre he could finish quiteThe songs the fairies whisperedOft in the stilly night.

Young Nicholas, his brother,

Composed almost as well

For both these music lovers

Had touched Apollo's shell.

But white plague took poor Nicholas

Ere he could finish quite

The songs the fairies whispered

Oft in the stilly night.

While Anton worked for many a yearAnd on the ladder FAMEAs a sensation playerSecurely placed his name.

While Anton worked for many a year

And on the ladder FAME

As a sensation player

Securely placed his name.

To every realm of musicSome work this master gaveAnd o'er hisOcean SymphonyAll of the nations rave.

To every realm of music

Some work this master gave

And o'er hisOcean Symphony

All of the nations rave.

But all his thoughts were not of love,And Liszt and Wagner airsWere classed by him as discordsNot fit for country fairs.

But all his thoughts were not of love,

And Liszt and Wagner airs

Were classed by him as discords

Not fit for country fairs.

He hated also our good land,Though when upon our shoreHe gathered in the golden streamsAnd held his hand for more.

He hated also our good land,

Though when upon our shore

He gathered in the golden streams

And held his hand for more.

He traveled in most every land,Was steeped in music lore,And his great songs in numberWill almost make eight score.

He traveled in most every land,

Was steeped in music lore,

And his great songs in number

Will almost make eight score.

But he was never happyAs in his heart was "Hate,"Which shut out Fairy HappinessAll mortals' proper mate.

But he was never happy

As in his heart was "Hate,"

Which shut out Fairy Happiness

All mortals' proper mate.

CHRISTOPHER WILLIBALD GLÜCK

[Born in Weidenwang, Germany—1714-1787.]

Though Glück himself lived a peaceful lifeHisIphigéniecaused much strifeAs on its merits Frenchmen foughtAgainst Italians who had soughtTo down the so-called Glucist schoolAnd call each follower a fool.The Picinists and Glucists thenAgreed to a great contest whenEach faction said that it would showThe 'tother ought to Lethe goBut after all harsh words were spentBoth factions gladly gave consentThat Glück's dramatic opera grandRuled then o'er all great Music Land.

Though Glück himself lived a peaceful life

HisIphigéniecaused much strife

As on its merits Frenchmen fought

Against Italians who had sought

To down the so-called Glucist school

And call each follower a fool.

The Picinists and Glucists thenAgreed to a great contest whenEach faction said that it would showThe 'tother ought to Lethe goBut after all harsh words were spentBoth factions gladly gave consentThat Glück's dramatic opera grandRuled then o'er all great Music Land.

The Picinists and Glucists then

Agreed to a great contest when

Each faction said that it would show

The 'tother ought to Lethe go

But after all harsh words were spent

Both factions gladly gave consent

That Glück's dramatic opera grand

Ruled then o'er all great Music Land.

LOUIS HECTOR BERLIOZ

[France—1803-1869.]

A prophet without honorIn his own country knownWas Louis Hector BerliozWho yearned but for a boneOf French approval for his worksWhich strangers always praisedBut which in his own countryNo great applause would raise."A doctor you must be, my son,"His father sternly said,But Louis tried to prove to himThat music ranks aheadOf all this life's professionsAnd he would like to tryTo win the famous Prix de Rome—Oh, he would aim so high!His father laughed his son to scorn,His teachers quarreled with him,They said he was eccentricAnd music was a whim.Then poor and hungry he left homeAnd three times bravely triedTo win the longed for Prix de RomeFor which ambition cried,The third time proved to him a charmAnd with his laurels crownedHe hastened to his much loved FranceBut there no praise he found.An English actress he adoredAnd made her his first wife—But little happiness she brought—Naught but complaints and strife,As a sad accident befellThis one time actress greatAnd as she lay so ill and crossShe ever cursed her fate.A baby came into this home;The hunger wolf came too,And when the mother left this homeHe knew not what to do.He married then a second timeAnd sorrows thicker cameAnd soon he lost his only boyIn War God's awful game.As he was born 'neath planet MarsFor him there was no peace,His life was one fierce conflictWhere troubles never cease.

A prophet without honor

In his own country known

Was Louis Hector Berlioz

Who yearned but for a bone

Of French approval for his works

Which strangers always praised

But which in his own country

No great applause would raise.

"A doctor you must be, my son,"His father sternly said,But Louis tried to prove to himThat music ranks aheadOf all this life's professionsAnd he would like to tryTo win the famous Prix de Rome—Oh, he would aim so high!

"A doctor you must be, my son,"

His father sternly said,

But Louis tried to prove to him

That music ranks ahead

Of all this life's professions

And he would like to try

To win the famous Prix de Rome—

Oh, he would aim so high!

His father laughed his son to scorn,His teachers quarreled with him,They said he was eccentricAnd music was a whim.Then poor and hungry he left homeAnd three times bravely triedTo win the longed for Prix de RomeFor which ambition cried,The third time proved to him a charmAnd with his laurels crownedHe hastened to his much loved FranceBut there no praise he found.

His father laughed his son to scorn,

His teachers quarreled with him,

They said he was eccentric

And music was a whim.

Then poor and hungry he left home

And three times bravely tried

To win the longed for Prix de Rome

For which ambition cried,

The third time proved to him a charm

And with his laurels crowned

He hastened to his much loved France

But there no praise he found.

An English actress he adoredAnd made her his first wife—But little happiness she brought—Naught but complaints and strife,As a sad accident befellThis one time actress greatAnd as she lay so ill and crossShe ever cursed her fate.A baby came into this home;The hunger wolf came too,And when the mother left this homeHe knew not what to do.He married then a second timeAnd sorrows thicker cameAnd soon he lost his only boyIn War God's awful game.As he was born 'neath planet MarsFor him there was no peace,His life was one fierce conflictWhere troubles never cease.

An English actress he adored

And made her his first wife—

But little happiness she brought—

Naught but complaints and strife,

As a sad accident befell

This one time actress great

And as she lay so ill and cross

She ever cursed her fate.

A baby came into this home;

The hunger wolf came too,

And when the mother left this home

He knew not what to do.

He married then a second time

And sorrows thicker came

And soon he lost his only boy

In War God's awful game.

As he was born 'neath planet Mars

For him there was no peace,

His life was one fierce conflict

Where troubles never cease.

KARL MARIA FRIEDRICH ERNST VON WEBER

[Born at Eutin, near Lubeck, in Germany—1786-1826.]

To ancestors all of a musical raceThe genius of Weber we easily trace.And from early training in babyhood daysHis thoughts were all turned to musical lays.At fourteen an opera little Karl wrote,Finished completely in its every note.Creator of "ROMANTIC OPERA," heGained a position on Life's Stellar Sea.Like other great artists he never was blessedWith habits of knowing just how to take rest.While writingDer Freischutz, his great masterpiece,He cut many years from Nature's life lease.And when working constantly without a rest,Despite every signal of health in distress,The wonderful Oberon opera he wrote,He sounded, alas, his Death calling note.

To ancestors all of a musical race

The genius of Weber we easily trace.

And from early training in babyhood days

His thoughts were all turned to musical lays.

At fourteen an opera little Karl wrote,

Finished completely in its every note.

Creator of "ROMANTIC OPERA," he

Gained a position on Life's Stellar Sea.

Like other great artists he never was blessed

With habits of knowing just how to take rest.

While writingDer Freischutz, his great masterpiece,

He cut many years from Nature's life lease.

And when working constantly without a rest,

Despite every signal of health in distress,

The wonderful Oberon opera he wrote,

He sounded, alas, his Death calling note.

JAKOB LUDWIG FELIX MENDELSSOHN

[Born at Hamburg, Germany—1809-1847.]

By the composer MendelssohnCruel poverty was never known.A genius born and with great wealthWith loving parents and good healthAnd with his heart so full of funWe christen him "The happy one."When as a baby very smallHis family he delighted allBy cooing sweetly in each keyOfaorborcord.Ere he had passed his ninth milestoneHe played in public all alone.As a composer he won fameAnd for himself an artist's name.His genius showed in his brown eyesLarge and lustrous, deep and wise,And all who saw him loved him well;On each he cast a happy spell.His "Songs Without Words" we all love;They carry us to realms above.

By the composer MendelssohnCruel poverty was never known.A genius born and with great wealthWith loving parents and good healthAnd with his heart so full of funWe christen him "The happy one."

By the composer Mendelssohn

Cruel poverty was never known.

A genius born and with great wealth

With loving parents and good health

And with his heart so full of fun

We christen him "The happy one."

When as a baby very smallHis family he delighted allBy cooing sweetly in each keyOfaorborcord.

When as a baby very small

His family he delighted all

By cooing sweetly in each key

Ofaorborcord.

Ere he had passed his ninth milestoneHe played in public all alone.As a composer he won fameAnd for himself an artist's name.

Ere he had passed his ninth milestone

He played in public all alone.

As a composer he won fame

And for himself an artist's name.

His genius showed in his brown eyesLarge and lustrous, deep and wise,And all who saw him loved him well;On each he cast a happy spell.His "Songs Without Words" we all love;They carry us to realms above.

His genius showed in his brown eyes

Large and lustrous, deep and wise,

And all who saw him loved him well;

On each he cast a happy spell.

His "Songs Without Words" we all love;

They carry us to realms above.

LOUIS MOREAU GOTTSCHALK

[New Orleans—1829-1869.]

When I'm playingThe Last HopeIt carries me awayTo other realms than Mother Earth,And sometimes I would stayIn Music Land with its sweet tonesThat banish from our heartsAll petty horrid troubled caresThat stab us with their darts.Gottschalk, I'm very proud to own,Was a real Dixie lad,And as I am a Dixie girlThis makes me very glad.When he was only twelve years oldHe went abroad to learnHow to make sweet music soundsFor which his soul did yearn.And while abroad his parents lostTheir filthy lucre all,And on his talents this young ladWas then compelled to callAnd ask their aid to earn his breadAnd help his parents dear.And he then traveled, so 'tis said,In lands both far and nearFar more than any other manIn music circles known.He gave his life to those who called,No minutes were his own.And so he wore out the good frameWhich nature to him gaveAnd when he was but fortyWas claimed by the cruel grave.

When I'm playingThe Last Hope

It carries me away

To other realms than Mother Earth,

And sometimes I would stay

In Music Land with its sweet tones

That banish from our hearts

All petty horrid troubled cares

That stab us with their darts.

Gottschalk, I'm very proud to own,Was a real Dixie lad,And as I am a Dixie girlThis makes me very glad.

Gottschalk, I'm very proud to own,

Was a real Dixie lad,

And as I am a Dixie girl

This makes me very glad.

When he was only twelve years oldHe went abroad to learnHow to make sweet music soundsFor which his soul did yearn.

When he was only twelve years old

He went abroad to learn

How to make sweet music sounds

For which his soul did yearn.

And while abroad his parents lostTheir filthy lucre all,And on his talents this young ladWas then compelled to callAnd ask their aid to earn his breadAnd help his parents dear.And he then traveled, so 'tis said,In lands both far and nearFar more than any other manIn music circles known.He gave his life to those who called,No minutes were his own.And so he wore out the good frameWhich nature to him gaveAnd when he was but fortyWas claimed by the cruel grave.

And while abroad his parents lost

Their filthy lucre all,

And on his talents this young lad

Was then compelled to call

And ask their aid to earn his bread

And help his parents dear.

And he then traveled, so 'tis said,

In lands both far and near

Far more than any other man

In music circles known.

He gave his life to those who called,

No minutes were his own.

And so he wore out the good frame

Which nature to him gave

And when he was but forty

Was claimed by the cruel grave.

JOHANN STRAUSS

[Austria—1804-1849.]

Oh, the good bandmaster StraussHe is loved in every houseAs he makes us, oh, so merryWith his cunning waltzing fairy,And he drives away the bluesPutting dance sprites in our shoes.When he was a little ladHe was neither good nor badBut he ran away from homeAnd for years and years did roam.When but fourteen years of ageHe was loved by dunce and sage,And great kings would kiss his handWhen they heard his wondrous band.When dread Fever sealed his doomBandmen stood above his tombPlaying farewell songs of loveWhich they thought would go above,To that far off mystic landWhere they hoped there was "a band."

Oh, the good bandmaster StraussHe is loved in every houseAs he makes us, oh, so merryWith his cunning waltzing fairy,And he drives away the bluesPutting dance sprites in our shoes.

Oh, the good bandmaster Strauss

He is loved in every house

As he makes us, oh, so merry

With his cunning waltzing fairy,

And he drives away the blues

Putting dance sprites in our shoes.

When he was a little ladHe was neither good nor badBut he ran away from homeAnd for years and years did roam.

When he was a little lad

He was neither good nor bad

But he ran away from home

And for years and years did roam.

When but fourteen years of ageHe was loved by dunce and sage,And great kings would kiss his handWhen they heard his wondrous band.

When but fourteen years of age

He was loved by dunce and sage,

And great kings would kiss his hand

When they heard his wondrous band.

When dread Fever sealed his doomBandmen stood above his tombPlaying farewell songs of loveWhich they thought would go above,To that far off mystic landWhere they hoped there was "a band."

When dread Fever sealed his doom

Bandmen stood above his tomb

Playing farewell songs of love

Which they thought would go above,

To that far off mystic land

Where they hoped there was "a band."

ALESSANDRO SCARLATTI

[Born in Sicily—1659-1725.]

Scarlatti dwelt upon this earthBefore the masters came.In Sicily he had his birthAnd gained an artist's name.The Order of the Golden SpurThe Pope gave unto him,And princes often did bestirTo satisfy his whim.His famous work,The Cat's Fuguedubbed,He named for his pet cat.One night her fur by dogship rubbedThe right way for a spat,Upon the spinet keys she sprang,Wild music made her feet;And in Scarlatti's soul their rangThe tones for music sweet.

Scarlatti dwelt upon this earth

Before the masters came.

In Sicily he had his birth

And gained an artist's name.

The Order of the Golden Spur

The Pope gave unto him,

And princes often did bestir

To satisfy his whim.

His famous work,The Cat's Fuguedubbed,He named for his pet cat.One night her fur by dogship rubbedThe right way for a spat,Upon the spinet keys she sprang,Wild music made her feet;And in Scarlatti's soul their rangThe tones for music sweet.

His famous work,The Cat's Fuguedubbed,

He named for his pet cat.

One night her fur by dogship rubbed

The right way for a spat,

Upon the spinet keys she sprang,

Wild music made her feet;

And in Scarlatti's soul their rang

The tones for music sweet.

KARL CZERNY

[Born in Vienna, Austria—1791-1857.]

Born in seventeen ninety-one,Karl Czerny early honor wonAs a master of techniqueAnd to help those who are weakAnd of striking notes afraid,Many an exercise he made.At nine he won an artist's nameBeethoven added to his fame,From all artists of his dayElecting him his works to play.King of teachers he is known,Master of each fairy tone.At fourteen he began to teachAnd many pupils he saw reachTo heights of music masters' fameAs Liszt, who won a glorious nameWhen at sixty-six he diedAll great music lovers cried,But as a gift he left behindWorks of his great heart and mind,Full nine hundred forty-nineAnd every one the world calls fine.

Born in seventeen ninety-one,

Karl Czerny early honor won

As a master of technique

And to help those who are weak

And of striking notes afraid,

Many an exercise he made.

At nine he won an artist's name

Beethoven added to his fame,

From all artists of his day

Electing him his works to play.

King of teachers he is known,Master of each fairy tone.At fourteen he began to teachAnd many pupils he saw reachTo heights of music masters' fameAs Liszt, who won a glorious nameWhen at sixty-six he diedAll great music lovers cried,But as a gift he left behindWorks of his great heart and mind,Full nine hundred forty-nineAnd every one the world calls fine.

King of teachers he is known,

Master of each fairy tone.

At fourteen he began to teach

And many pupils he saw reach

To heights of music masters' fame

As Liszt, who won a glorious name

When at sixty-six he died

All great music lovers cried,

But as a gift he left behind

Works of his great heart and mind,

Full nine hundred forty-nine

And every one the world calls fine.

ARE ALL ANGELS BLONDS?

"I want to be an angel and with the angels stand,"So loudly sang the children in our church mission band,But as I chanted with them this lovely little strainI wished to ask the teacher if she could quite explainWhy all the angel pictures are painted with light hair,And blue eyes soft and tender and skin so very fair,While half the little children and grown-up people, too,Have hair and eyes and even skin of very darkest hue?And as I have such dark brown eyes and also dark brown hair,Most naturally I feel quite sad to learn that only fairAnd blue-eyed little children can ever angels be,So now, alas, I'm thinking—what will become of me?

"I want to be an angel and with the angels stand,"

So loudly sang the children in our church mission band,

But as I chanted with them this lovely little strain

I wished to ask the teacher if she could quite explain

Why all the angel pictures are painted with light hair,

And blue eyes soft and tender and skin so very fair,

While half the little children and grown-up people, too,

Have hair and eyes and even skin of very darkest hue?

And as I have such dark brown eyes and also dark brown hair,

Most naturally I feel quite sad to learn that only fair

And blue-eyed little children can ever angels be,

So now, alas, I'm thinking—what will become of me?

GOOD PEOPLE EVERYWHERE

Since coming to earth it has been my fateNot to be able to cling to one state.My birthplace, Virginia, we all know is fairAnd when a wee kiddie I was happy there.But when my good UNCLE sent us awayTo Delaware's pastures, I was still gay.And then to dear Hoosierland I went to dwell,And, oh, how I loved it—alas too well.I wept when I left my Evansville homeTo Washington State I longed not to roam.But there fairies helped me always to findFlowers and friends both sweet and kind.And so in "God's Country," the land of the roseA real earthly heaven as everyone knows.Again in far Georgia and Florida tooPleasure were mine in landscapes quite new;And though to Penn's country I wended my wayWith dreadful misgivings in Pittsburgh to stay.I found that sweet music and kindest of deedsConquered the smoke as salt kills the weeds.In New York I found all life's stirring joysFor each of the grown-ups and all girls and boys.And North Carolina, my present home state,Proves to me truly that kind MOTHER FATEPlaces good people in each spot on earthTo radiate kindness and sunshine and mirth.

Since coming to earth it has been my fate

Not to be able to cling to one state.

My birthplace, Virginia, we all know is fair

And when a wee kiddie I was happy there.

But when my good UNCLE sent us away

To Delaware's pastures, I was still gay.

And then to dear Hoosierland I went to dwell,

And, oh, how I loved it—alas too well.

I wept when I left my Evansville home

To Washington State I longed not to roam.

But there fairies helped me always to find

Flowers and friends both sweet and kind.

And so in "God's Country," the land of the roseA real earthly heaven as everyone knows.Again in far Georgia and Florida tooPleasure were mine in landscapes quite new;And though to Penn's country I wended my wayWith dreadful misgivings in Pittsburgh to stay.

And so in "God's Country," the land of the rose

A real earthly heaven as everyone knows.

Again in far Georgia and Florida too

Pleasure were mine in landscapes quite new;

And though to Penn's country I wended my way

With dreadful misgivings in Pittsburgh to stay.

I found that sweet music and kindest of deedsConquered the smoke as salt kills the weeds.In New York I found all life's stirring joysFor each of the grown-ups and all girls and boys.And North Carolina, my present home state,Proves to me truly that kind MOTHER FATEPlaces good people in each spot on earthTo radiate kindness and sunshine and mirth.

I found that sweet music and kindest of deeds

Conquered the smoke as salt kills the weeds.

In New York I found all life's stirring joys

For each of the grown-ups and all girls and boys.

And North Carolina, my present home state,

Proves to me truly that kind MOTHER FATE

Places good people in each spot on earth

To radiate kindness and sunshine and mirth.

FINIS

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