EVENING DRESS.
LIKE to spend an evening out
In music and in mirth;
I think a party is about
The finest fun on earth:
And if I rarely patronise
The gay and giddy throng,
'Tis not, my friend, that I despise
The revel, dance, and song:
But I 've a dread I can't express
Of going out in Evening Dress.
I'm partial to the British stage;
And—spite of its decline—
The Drama, from a tender age,
Has been a love of mine.
You ask me why I seldom go,
And why I always sit
In one distinct, unvaried row—
(The second of the pit);
'Tis not because it costs me less,
But all along of Evening Dress.
I hate the habits which denote
The slave to Fashion's rule;
I hate the black, unwieldy coat
Which makes one look a fool.
I execrate the Gibus hat
(Collapsing with a spring),
The shiny boots, the white cravat,
And nearly everything
That's worn by dandies who profess
To be au fait in Evening Dress.
My braces break—a button goes—
My razor gives a slip,
And cuts me either on my nose
Or else upon my lip;
Or, while I'm cabbing to the place,
A lot of mud or dirt
Gets plaster'd either on my face,
Or else upon my shirt.
In fact, I always make a mess
Of that confounded Evening Dress.