There once was a singer, old Barney McBard,
Whose voice was as rough as a wire-brush on lard.
He'd warble and wail with the grace of a goat,
But by God, every song came straight from his throat.

Now Barney, he fancied himself quite the star,
Though his pitch was as wayward as sailors in bars.
His manager, Slick Pete, with pomade in his hair,
Said, "Barney, my boy, you're a vocal nightmare!"

"Fear not," said old Slick with a glint in his eye,
"There's a newfangled gadget we simply must try.
It's called Auto-Tune, and it works like a charm,
It'll fix your bum notes without breaking an arm."

But Barney stood firm with his chin in the air,
"I'll not have my voice altered, tweaked, or repaired!
My warbling's authentic, it's genuine stuff,
If you don't like the sound, well that's just tough."

Slick Pete, he insisted, grew red in the face,
"Without Auto-Tune, you're a bloody disgrace!
Your voice is a crime, it's an assault on the ear,
It frightens small children and curdles the beer!"

But Barney just grinned and he picked up his git,
Said, "I'd rather sing poorly than not sing a bit.
My voice may be rough, and my pitch may be skew,
But at least it's all me, and it's honestly true."

So Barney went on with his off-key crusade,
Singing pubs and small clubs, never making the grade.
And one fateful night at the old Frog and Fiddle,
He croaked out a ballad that solved life's great riddle.

For there in the crowd sat a tone-deaf old crone,
Who thought Barney's voice was as sweet as her own.
They married next week in a ceremony grand,
Where they both sang their vows to the horror of all hands.

Now the moral, dear friends, of this musical tale:
True love's often deaf, and off-key to prevail.
So sing from your heart, be it tenor or croak,
For somewhere there's someone who'll get the joke.

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - ”that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."