“Try it again! no harm in trying! 
A pound’s a pound there’s no denying;
But think what thousands and thousands of pounds
We pay for nothing but hearing sounds: 
Sounds of Equity, Justice, and Law,
Parliamentary jabber and jaw,
Pious cant and moral saw,
Hocus-pocus, and Nong-tong-paw,
And empty sounds not worth a straw;
Why it costs a guinea, as I’m a sinner,
To hear the sounds at a Public Dinner! 
One pound one thrown into the puddle,
To listen to Fiddle, Faddle, and Fuddle! 
Not to forget the sounds we buy
From those who sell their sounds so high,
That, unless the Managers pitch it strong,
To get a Signora to warble a song,
You must fork out the blunt with a haymaker’s prong!

“It’s not the thing for me—­I know it,
To crack my own Trumpet up and blow it;
But it is the best, and time will show it,
      There was Mrs. F.
      So very deaf,
That she might have worn a percussion-cap,
And been knock’d on the head without hearing it snap. 
Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day
She heard from her husband at Botany Bay! 
Come—­eighteen shillings—­that’s very low,
You’ll save the money as shillings go,
And I never knew so bad a lot,
By hearing whether they ring or not!

“Eighteen shillings! it’s worth the price,
Supposing you’re delicate-minded and nice,
To have the medical man of your choice,
Instead of the one with the strongest voice—­
Who comes and asks you, how’s your liver,
And where you ache, and whether you shiver,
And as to your nerves, so apt to quiver,
As if he was hailing a boat in the river! 
And then with a shout, like Pat in a riot,
Tells you to keep yourself perfectly quiet! 
Or a tradesman comes—­as tradesmen will—­
Short and crusty about his bill,
  Of patience, indeed, a perfect scorner,
And because you’re deaf and unable to pay,
Shouts whatever he has to say,
In a vulgar voice, that goes over the way,
  Down the street and round the corner! 
Come—­speak your mind—­it’s ‘No or Yes,’”
("I’ve half a mind,” said Dame Eleanor S.)

“Try it again—­no harm in trying,
Of course you hear me, as easy as lying;
No pain at all, like a surgical trick,
To make you squall, and struggle, and kick,
    Like Juno, or Rose,
    Whose ear undergoes
Such horrid tugs at membrane and gristle,
For being as deaf as yourself to a whistle!

“You may go to surgical chaps if you choose,
Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues,
Or cut your tonsils right away,
As you’d shell out your almonds for Christmas-day;
And after all a matter of doubt,
Whether you ever would hear the shout: 
Of the little blackguards that bawl about,
‘There you go with your tonsils out!’
Why I knew a deaf Welshman, who came from Glamorgan
On purpose to try a surgical spell,
And paid a guinea, and might as well