Each man of us a choice assortment
Of Turveydropian deportment.
But where is now your ancient pomp?
Your dance is but a vulgar romp,
Your shocking "Barns" and "Posts"—oh, fie!
You only think of kicking high.
The men career sans time, sans rhythm,
The girls rush helter-skelter with 'em,
They charge, they trample on one's toes,
Their elbows hit one on the nose,