On a Music Master—The Hon. H. Erskine.
On a Music Master who after gaining Credit of many, ran away in every one’s Debt.
His time was short, his touch was neat,
Our gold he freely finger’d;
Alert alike with hands and feet,
His movements have not linger’d.
Where lies the wonder of the case?
A moment’s thought detects it;
His practice has been Thoro-base,
A chord will be his exit!
Yet while we blame his hasty flight
Our censure may be rash;
A traveller is surely right
To change his notes for cash.