I never to a ball will go,
That poor pretence for prancing,
Where Jenkins dislocates a toe,
And Tomkins _thinks_ he's dancing:
And most I execrate that ball,
Of balls the most atrocious,
Held yearly in old Magog's hall,
The feasting and ferocious.
I execrate the mob, the squeeze,
The rough refreshment-scramble:
The dancers, keeping time with knees
That knock as down they amble;
Between two lines of bankers' clerks,
Stared at by two of loobies--
All mighty fine for city sparks,
But all and each one boobies:--
Boobies with heads like poodle-dogs,
With curls like clew-lines dangling;
With limbs like galvanizing frogs,
And necks stiff-starched and strangling;
With pigeon-breasts and pigeon-wings,
And waists like wasps and spiders;
With whiskers like Macready's kings',
Mustachios like El Hyder's.
Miss Jones, the Moorfields milliner,
With Toilinet, the draper,
May waltz--for none are _willinger_
To cut cloth or a caper.--
Miss Moses of the Minories,
With Mr. Wicks of Wapping,
May love such light tracasseries,
Such shuffle shoe and hopping:
Miss Hicks, the belle of Holywell,
And pride of Norton Falgate,
In waltzing may the world excel,
Except Miss Hicks of Aldgate.
Well, let them--'tis their nature--twirl,
And Smiths adore their twirlings,
Which kill with envy every girl
That fingers lace at Urling's,
I laugh while I lament to see
A fellow, made to measure
'Gainst grenadiers of six feet three,
"Die down the dance" with pleasure.
I laugh to see a man with thews
His way through Misses picking,
Like pig with tender pettitoes,
Or chicken-hearted chicken;
A tom-cat shod with walnut-shells,
A pony race in pattens,
A wagon-horse tricked out with bells,
A sow in silks and satins,
A butcher's hair _en papillote_,
And lounging Piccadilly,
A clown in an embroidered coat,
Are not more gauche and silly.
Let atoms take their dusty dance,
But men are not corpuscles:
An Englishman's not made in France,
Nor wire and buckram muscles.
The manly leap, the breathing race,
The wrestle, or old cricket,
Give to the limbs a native grace--
So, here's for double-wicket.
Leave dancing to the women, Men--
In them it is becoming;--
I never tire to see them, when
Joe Hart his fiddle's strumming,
Or Colinet and mild Musard
Have set their hearts quadrilling;--
Then be each nymph a gay Brocard,
And every woman killing.
I love to see the pretty dears
Go lightly caracolling,
And drinking love at eyes and ears,
With every look their soul in!
I like to watch the swan-like grace
They show in minuetting.
It hits one's bosom's tenderest place,
To see them pirouetting.
But when a measurer of tape
Turns butterfly and dandy,
Assumes their grace, their air, their shape,
I wish a pump were handy!
I never to such balls will go,
Those poor pretexts for prancing;
Where Jenkins dislocates his toe,
And Tomkins _thinks_ he's dancing.
_Monthly Magazine._
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