AT THE HUNT BALL
(The Sad Complaint of a Man in Black)
o Molly, dear, my head, I fear, is going round and round,
Your cousin isn't in the hunt, when hunting men abound;
A waltz for me no more you'll keep, the girls appear to think
There's a law been made in favour of the wearing of the pink.
Sure I met you in the passage, and I took you by the hand,
And says I, "How many dances, Molly, darlint, will ye stand?"
But your card was full, you said it with a most owdacious wink,
And I'm "hanging" all your partners for the wearing of the pink!
You'd a waltz for Charlie Thruster, but you'd divil a one for me,
Though he dances like a steam-engine, as all the world may see;
'Tis an illigant divarsion to observe the crowd divide,
As he plunges down the ball-room, taking couples in his stride.
'Tis a cropper you'll be coming, but you know your business best,
Still, it's bad to see you romping round with Charlie and the rest;
Now you're dancing with Lord Arthur—sure, he's had enough to dhrink—
And I'm "hanging" all your partners for the wearing of the pink!
Your cruelty ashamed you'll be someday to call to mind,
You'll be glad to ask my pardon, then, for being so unkind,
The hunting men are first, to-night—well, let them have their whack—
You'll be glad to dance with me, someday—when all the coats are black!
But, since pink's the only colour now that fills your pretty head,
Bedad, I'll have some supper, and then vanish home to bed.
'Tis the most distressful ball-room I was ever in, I think,
And I'm "hanging" all your partners for the wearing of the pink!
