Master of discords John

          Makes harmony seem wrong

His treble sings to his bass

          Like a sow consoling her young.

If he played with his shoulder blades

          He'd make a pleasanter tune;

He reaches out for a chord

          As a dog snaps at a bone.  

Playing away to himself

         Nobody knows what tune,

Even the man who made it   

         Cannot recall his own.  

A wonder the way he works

         He never keeps tune or time;

With skill and care he goes wrong

         Mountains of errors climb.

Give him the simplest catch

        And once you're in at the kill;

He mangles it patiently

         Like an old loud derelict mill.  

Copper scratched with a knife

         Brass cut with a rasp

His nails scrape at the strings

         Till all shudder and gasp.  

God help you gentle harp.

         Pounded and played by his fist.

There isn't a chord in your breast.

         Without a sprain or a twist..

Translated from the Gaelic (Author unknown)