A Reflection on “By Ear and By Page”

There is a profound, almost vulnerable honesty at the heart of this poem. Written while observing a young lad at the public piano in Dublin’s Heuston Station, the verses capture a tension known to many classically trained musicians: the sharp divide between the safety of the written page and the freedom of playing by ear.

The Weight of the Public Stage

The opening stanza establishes an immediate boundary:

To play in public is too much,
I never could; I know not why.

For a musician whose primary relationship with music is through the formal discipline of the organ, cello, or piano score, the public square can feel like an overwhelming arena. Public praise carries a different weight when music is approached with reverence, structure, and precision. To lead the song is to step into the spotlight, whereas to read from the page is to serve as a faithful translator of the composer’s intent.

The Contrast of Spontaneous Joy

In the second stanza, the setting comes alive against the background of a bustling transit hub:

The lad plays on; his mates stand by,
A station full of visitors here.

Here, the station piano becomes a place of sudden, informal sanctuary. The young pianist isn’t constrained by an upcoming exam, a strict syllabus, or the scrutiny of a adjudicator. Surrounded by friends and passing travellers, he moves effortlessly between “some tunes we know, but others not.” He plays from a place of auditory intuition—an operating system where memory and feeling guide the fingers directly, bypassing the visual step of the printed staff.

Literacy and Longing

The final stanza turns inward, naming a quiet envy that many fluent sight-readers harbour:

Unless I know it well enough,
Sheet music do I need to read.
I envy those to whom is giv’n
The gift to play it all by ear.

Rather than a failure, this dependence on sheet music can be a mark of deep musical literacy. To read scores complex enough for multi-manual organs, cellos, or classical arrangements requires a high level of visual-motor processing. Yet, watching someone sit at a public keyboard without a single sheet of paper in sight reveals the magic of the oral tradition—music existing entirely in the air, unanchored by ink.

The Two Languages of Music

Ultimately, the poem does not condemn the speaker’s need for sheet music; it simply observes the gift of spontaneous expression with generous wonder. The lad at Heuston Station brings quick joy to a roomful of commuters, while the literate musician holds the key to centuries of preserved polyphony, hymns, and intricate arrangements. Both are valid ways of entering the room of music—one through the open door of memory and ear, the other through the faithful lens of the page.

By Ear and By Page

To play in public is too much,
I never could; I know not why.
To play to lead the others’ song—
Their praise is different, I know.

The lad plays on; his mates stand by,
A station full of visitors here.
Enjoy what keys he has to play—
Some tunes we know, but others not.

Unless I know it well enough,
Sheet music do I need to read.
I envy those to whom is giv’n
The gift to play it all by ear.

© Michael McFarland Campbell. 2026. Not for commercial reproduction.
Written Thursday 13 August 2026.