I’M not a good dancer, I freely admit,
Though the tune be a nice one of Strauss’s;
And my partner, I fear, says, when I disappear,
“How clumsy that Mr. Wodehouse is!”
But I shine at that function beloved of each class,
The middle, the low, and the upper—
In the ball-room I seem an incompetent ass;
But, by Jingo! I sparkle at supper.
I never was taught in the days of my youth
The waltz with its intricate movements;
I don’t know the tricks of the steps (which are six),
Let alone all the latest improvements.
As I plough round the room, on the train of a dress
I oft with a blundering shoe step,
The Lancers I shun, and I score even less
At that horrid invention, the two-step.
I feel that my partner regards me with hate
Before I’ve completed the circuit.
(I hide from the start in a corner apart
If I only can manage to work it.)
But soon comes the moment that lightens my grief.
And my limbs, which were rigid, grow supple,
And I lead off a lady, with sighs of relief,
To a table that’s built for a couple.
My features, once long, are relaxed in a smile,
My faculties, frozen, again work
And my talk as we eat would afford quite a treat
To those who appreciate brain-work
Do I try the pathetic ? Look close, you will see
Her form with a half-suppressed sob stir;
Am I humorous ? Mark, now she chuckles with glee
Till she cannot proceed with the lobster.
My pithy remarks never fail to impress,
My wit never known to grow stale is;
I discuss with a gay flow of satire some play
At the Haymarket, Waldorf, or Daly’s.
On matters of taste in the region of Art
I prove a most useful adviser,
On politics, too, I have views to impart
Which render her better and wiser.
I’m not a good dancer, I freely admit;
I’m what you would call a bad starter.
And I sometimes surprise in my partner’s blue eyes
The agonised look of a martyr.
With heart in my shoes I advance to my doom,
And shuffle along till I’m dropping;
The air appears heavily laden with gloom,
But at supper, by Jingo ! I’m topping.