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.
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