I shall change, but what of that?
All flesh is grass, one says.
The parson's sheep grow fat,
The parson grows in grace.

All flesh is grass, one says;
Grass becomes flesh, one knows;

The parson grows in grace;
I am the grace he grows.

Grass becomes flesh, one knows,
He grows like a bull of Bashan,

I am the grace he grows,

I startle his congregation.

He grows like a bull of Bashan,
One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,

I startle his congregation;

One day I shall preach to the Queen.

One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,
One of those science-haters;
One day I shall preach to the Queen,
To think of my going in gaiters!

One of those science-haters,

Blind as a mole or bat;

To think of my going in gaiters,

And wearing a shovel hat!

Blind as a mole or bat,

No faintest glimmer of light,
And wearing a shovel hat,

Morning and noon and night.

-"Love in Idleness."

EXERCISES FOR CLASS USE AND SELF-INSTRUCTION

1. Write a paragraph on the comparative values of French, English and Classical meters.

2. Are involved meters well fitted for the expression of emotional thought, or should we regard them rather as intellectual exercises?

3. Which form discussed in the chapter seems to you best fitted for the conveyance of dignified thought?

4. What is the meaning of the word tercet? 5. What constitutes an envoy to a poem?

6. Define (a) a Ballade; (b) a Rondeau.

7. Write a Villanelle upon a pastoral theme of your own selection.

8. Which "French form" suits your own fancy best? 9. Discuss briefly what types of themes would be best suited to any three French forms.

10. Choosing your own form from among the models in this chapter, write the introductory stanzas of a poem and give an idea of how you would handle the body of the poem and its conclusion.

II. If time affords, complete the poem.

12. Transfer the same theme to some other French form, if practicable.

CHAPTER XXII

SONG-WRITING

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

-H. W. LONGFELLOW, The Arrow and the Song.

The poetic song, being definitely composed for musical accompaniment, is the true lyric, and is often so named today. But, especially in the librettos of comic operas and musical comedies, the term lyric is gratuitously applied to light verse, which may adopt such tones as sentiment, humor, satire, vers de société, nonsense, parody, burlesque, and whimsicality.

A good lyric is not necessarily a good song. Songwriting demands some knowledge of, or at least an ear for music, although other kinds of lyric poetry do not. Shelley, the supreme lyrist, knew nothing of music, and some of his lyrics are almost unsingable. The best song-writers usually

sang their own songs. Burns, the most spontaneous poet of Great Britain, found little use for the names of trochee, dactyl, amphimacer, and the like, and had his fling at the poets who

Think to climb Parnassus

By dint of Greek.

He fitted his lines to well-known tunes and sang them himself. So also did Tom Moore.

In the days of Elizabeth and after the Restoration, in the time of Charles II, well nigh every English gentleman could write a song, both words and music, and play and sing it as well. To the general cultivation of "chambermusic" in those reigns, we owe a rich store of song-lyrics, to coin a seemingly redundant expression. In later times, Browning was something of a musician, and our own Sidney Lanier tried to fit the rules of music to the art of poetry, not always with perfect success, but the songs of Browning and of Lanier are not particularly singable. The reason is that the writers had not in mind the requirements of the singing voice, and too often grouped words which read well, but did not sing well.

General Hints

In singing, one must open one's mouth, therefore the more vowel sounds in a song the better, the more open vowel sounds (a and o) the better still, and the more terminal vowel sounds, by all odds still the better because if a note has to be prolonged the meaning of the word need not then be lost. This requirement, besides those of sim

plicity, sentiment, and rhythm, is fundamental to all good song making.

Crowded consonants and words ending in the labials p, b and m, and the fricative f, all of which close the lips, should be absolutely avoided.

A short line is preferable to a long one.

A taking rhythm-a rhythm with a lilt-should be chosen.

In literary form, make every word count, yet do not compress your language so as to obscure the meaning.

The refrain may often be used with good effect.

The best method of all is to choose an air and fit your words to it, for if the song does not sing itself, no one will sing it.

Observe the simplicity, clearness, compact form, rhythm, sentiment, and charm of the following songs which have long been favorites. Observe, too, those of you who know familiar settings for these songs, how even more smoothly they sing than they read.

O, MY LUVE's Like a Red, Red Rose

O, my luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.