So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides:
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud;
Who sent us—so be pardon'd all our faults—
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen—and Waltz.
But peace to her, her emperor and diet,
Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!"
Back to thy theme—O Muse of motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?
Borne on thy breath of hyperborean gales