The Small Boy's Whistle

W.T. Goodge

We can listen to the clatter of the clanging printing press,
And the rattle of the watercart we feel inclined to bless;
Though the bullocky's a-cursing and a-cracking of his whip
We can sling 'em out the copy and we never miss a slip;
And the banging and the thumping of the battery we find
Rather helpful to the motion of the literary mind;
In fact we've no objection to a noise of any kind -
But we cannot stand a small boy's whistle!

Oh! It splits in little pieces the idea you have caught,
And it rends the thread of argument and snaps the train of thought;
It contracts the thinking faculties, the intellect it dims,
And it makes you write anathemas instead of writing hymns!
It's the wickedest, the horridest, the vilest kind of noise,
And the chiefest way the Evil One makes use of little boys;
Every charitable sentiment it utterly destroys,
Does the piping of the small boy's whistle!

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