Miss Manners, who always abused you,
For talking so much about Hock—
And her sister who often amused you,
By raving of rebels and Rock;
And something which surely would answer,
A heiress, quite fresh from Bengal—
So, though you were seldom a dancer,
You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball.
But out on the world!—from the flowers
It shuts out the sunshine of truth;