Part 10

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 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 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 writing _Der 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 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 small His family he delighted all By cooing sweetly in each key Of _a_ or _b_ or _c_ or _d_.

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 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 playing _The 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 girl This makes me very glad.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 Fugue_ dubbed, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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

End of Project Gutenberg's Facts in Jingles, by Winifred Sackville Stoner