1829.] Dancing. 175 
A tom-cat shod with walnut-shells, 
A pony race in pattens, 
A waggon-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 shew 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. 
ILuscEeNOoR. 
