THE SONG OF THE DANCE.
"It really seems the ambition of each fashionable woman to render her dress more like a skin than that of her neighbour, besides exhibiting as large a portion of the real flesh as can be done without the apology for raiment absolutely dropping off!"—The World, January 31, 1877.
WITH arms a-wearied of fanning herself,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair,
Wishing herself in bed.
Turn, twirl, and turn,
With hop, with glide, and prance;
And still, as she sleepily gazed on that throng,
She muttered the "Song of the Dance."
Dance, dance, dance,
Till I hear the milkman's cry;
Dance, dance, dance,
Till the sun is seen on high.
It's O to be a nigger,
Nor mind to clothless feel,
If civilised folk will try how little
They need their bodies conceal!
Dance, dance, dance,
Till the heat is horrid to bear;
Dance, dance, dance,
Till I long for a cushioned chair.
Waltz, gallop, and waltz;
A lancer, a stray quadrille,
Till the whirl and the music make me doze,
And dreaming I watch them still.
O men with wives and sisters,
Have ye no eyes to see
That the scanty dress of the ballet-girl
By your kin ne'er worn should be?
Twirl, turn, and twirl;
Morality, where art thou?
The dance and the dress of the stage—and worse—
Are those of the ball-room now!
But why do I talk of morality
Since Fashion its morals makes?
What Fashion does is never wrong,
So Purity never quakes.
For Purity only takes
Her sip of the cup that Fashion fills;
And we know that cup is made of gold,
And that gold will cover a thousand ills.
Dance, dance, dance;
They never tired appear:
And all in hopes that a wished-for vow,
May fall on their foolish ear,
Alas, how the morn will show,
The work of the midnight air;
And the paint will trace on many a face,
And show false locks of hair!
Dance, dance, dance;
How sweetly they keep time,
As they dance, dance, dance,
In a measure quite sublime!
They waltz, waltz, waltz,
Keep time to the glorious band;
But, ah! there is many a blushing look,
And pressure of many a hand!
Thus wearied out with fanning herself,
With eyelids heavy and red,
This wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair,
Wishing herself in bed.
While all were swinging with turn and twirl,
With hop, and glide, and prance,
She muttered this song to herself, and said,
"Alas", where is morality fled,
Since true is my "Song of the Dance?"
CECIL MAXWELL LYTE.
London Society, November, 1877.