Danced till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all?
Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain
Of lute like mine, whose day is past,
To call up even a dream again
Of the fresh light those moments cast.
COUNTRY DANCE AND QUADRILLE.
One night the nymph called country dance--
(Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,
That mincing thing, _Mamselle_ quadrille)--
Having been chased from London down
To that most humble haunt of all
She used to grace--a Country Town--
Went smiling to the New-Year's Ball.
"Here, here, at least," she cried, tho' driven
"From London's gay and shining tracks--
"Tho', like a Peri cast from heaven,
"I've lost, for ever lost, Almack's--
"Tho' not a London Miss alive
"Would now for her acquaintance own me;
"And spinsters, even, of forty-five,
"Upon their honors ne'er have known me;
"Here, here, at least, I triumph still,
"And--spite of some few dandy Lancers.
"Who vainly try to preach Quadrille--
"See naught but _true-blue_ Country Dancers,
"Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,
"My throne, like Magna Charta, raise
"'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms,
"That scorn the threatened _chaine anglaise_.
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