“Where Is the Piccolo?”

The orchestra was ready made,

And yet the leader half delayed.

He ran his eye from chair to chair,

It seemed his players all were there.

He counted o’er the finer strings,

He noted harps, triangles, rings,

Cymbals, trombones, bass-viols, fifes,

Flutes, clarinets, drums, mellowing pipes.

What, what were missing, if one were?

Or was his orchestra all there?

Then blaze of light burst forth, as he

Gave them the sign of minstrelsy.

 

Like rush of air upon a void,

Like burst of light from ’neath a cloud,

So strains of music, sweetly blent,

Poured as form one vast instrument,

And to the master’s ear alone

There was the missing of a tone.

Crash! Came the baton on the stand;

He hushed the sound by wave of hand.

Pale, trembling, stood the master so,

And asked, “Where is the piccolo?”

 

Ah! There he comes, the tardy one,

After the concert is begun!

And once again the sign is given;

The music, sweet as sounds from heaven,

Bursts on the raptured audience,

Strange! Had the ear an added sense?

Or was’t the master’s word that so

Marked out the trilling piccolo?

 

Ah, little player, still delaying,

The orchestra of God is playing.

And though the angels may not know,

God asks, “Where is the piccolo?”

But when thou playest, they will say,

“How sweet thy notes are!” Come away

And take thy place; for hearts will praise

For notes from thee through endless days.