By the waltz’s giddy round,
By the galop’s maddening bound,
By the obsolete quadrille,
Polka mine! “I love thee still.”
Compared with thee each dance is slow
Polka mou sas agapo.
Happy season! thou art gone,
I, alas! must Polk alone!
Though the country now I roll to,
Almacks holds my heart and soul too.