Full dress’d are the ladies,—they most of them stand,
On tabourets others are sitting,
With dresses of satin and gold brocade,
Hung with lace and jewels befitting.
Their waists are small, their hoop-petticoats swell,
And from underneath them are peeping
Their high-heel’d feet, that so pretty appear,—
If their heads were but still in their keeping!
Not one of the number a head has on,
The queen herself in that article
Is wanting, and so Her Majesty boasts
Of frizzling not one particle.
Yes, she with toupée as high as a tower,
In dignity so resplendent,
Maria Theresa’s daughter fair,
The German Cæsar’s descendant,
She, curlless and headless, now must walk
Amongst her maids of honour,
Who, equally headless and void of curls,
Are humbly waiting upon her.
All this from the French Revolution has sprung,
And its doctrines so pernicious,
From Jean Jacques Rousseau and the guillotine,
And Voltaire the malicious.
Yet strange though it be, I shrewdly think
That none of these hapless creatures
Have ever observed how dead they are,
How devoid of head and features.
The first dame d’atour a linen shift brings,
And makes a reverence lowly;
The second hands it to the queen,
And both retire then slowly.
The third and fourth ladies curtsy and kneel
Before the queen discreetly,
That they may be able to draw on
Her Majesty’s stockings neatly.
A maid of honour curtsying brings
Her Majesty’s robe for the morning;
Another with curtsies her petticoat holds
And assists at the queen’s adorning.