A burlesque pastoral ballad in five double-quatrain stanzas without title or signature. A Connecticut poet offers to make beautiful music with his beloved: "Our joys like the Semibreve long, | Shall last 'till old age draweth near, | No Minim shall shorten the song, | No sober-fac'd Crotchet appear." The poem appears in the fourth number of the Connecticut Mirror.
Dear Sukey, of music and love,
I'm as full as an egg is of meat,
I raise my eight notes as I move,
And I hum as I walk through the street.
How sweet are your features of praise,
As you tune up your psalm-singing note;
O when on the gallery I gaze,
With rapture my bosom's afloat!
No mortal can think how I feel,
Whenever a pitch-pipe I see,
Its sound makes me wriggle and squeal,
But 'tis wriggling and squealing for thee.
If you will the gamut prepare,
And admit your poor lover to school,
He'll study each ravishing air,
And beat every tune off by rule.
How tedious are solos to sing!
Duets are the joy of my mind!
Sol — Fa — how transporting they ring,
When treble and tenor are join'd.
The counter may envious squeak,
The bass they may grumble around;
Our harmony never shall break,
For ecstacy softens the sound.
When flats or when sharps shall appear,
Short meter shall govern the song;
But when melody breaks on the ear,
No measure shall e'er be too long;
If faults in our music are found,
Soft warbles those faults shall conceal,
If union and concord abound,
All parts shall the rapture reveal.
Our joys like the Semibreve long,
Shall last 'till old age draweth near,
No Minim shall shorten the song,
No sober-fac'd Crotchet appear;
Our jargons shall lightly pass by,
Like the trill on the sweet sounding Quaver,
While discord, and dissonance fly
Like Semis and Demis forever.