That very night, as they walked home,
McDougal was deluded
A bugle into purchasing
(With leather case included),
At more than twice its proper price,
Because it looked "so very nice."
He little thought, poor wretched man,
As he this bargain fixed on,
How it would wreck his future life.
He took it home to Brixton,
And, from that hour, with much concern,
To play upon it tried to learn.
His efforts—so I understand—
At first were not successful.
His landladies objected—which,
Of course, was most distressful;
Then neighbours much annoyed him, for
They sued him in a court of law.
Said he: "'Tis strange, where'er I go
Opprobrium and hooting
My efforts greet. I'd better try
The common, out at Tooting,"
Where,—on his bugle-tootling bent,—
He most appropriately went.
Each evening after business hours
He'd practice—'twas his fancy—
Till he thought he played well enough
To serenade Miss Nancy,
Though (this must be well understood)
His playing really was not good.
He had no ear for music, and
Made discords which were racking;
While as for time, his sense of that
Was quite, entirely, lacking.
Still, excellent was his intent
As unto Nancy's house he went.
"That tune," he thought, "which we first heard,
'Twould doubtless, much engage her,
If I performed the self-same piece"
('Twas something in D major),
Which, knowing nought of C's and D's,
He played in quite a bunch of keys.
"Who is it making all this noise?"
A voice inquired quite crossly
Above his head. "'Tis I, my love,"
Said A. McDougal, hoarsely.
"Then go away; I've never heard,"
Said Nancy, "noises so absurd."