I’d give—I don’t know what I’d not, if it were not the case,
But it’s a fact—I can not look a lady in the face;
I’d rather face—I would, indeed—I know I am a fool—
I’d rather face a crocodile, than meet a ladies’ school.
At parties, when, like other men, I’m ask’d if I won’t dance,
I blush and fidget with my gloves, and wish myself in France,
And while I’m standing stammering, and hanging down my head,
Some sandy-whisker’d coxcomb leads the lady out instead.
I did just touch a lady’s hand, last night, in a quadrille,
Oh, goodness, how my heart did beat! it’s palpitating still.