Classic Poem

Muse of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms
Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore!--too long misdeemed a maid--
Reproachful term--bestowed but to upbraid--
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine,
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine.
Far be from thee and thine the name of prude;
Mocked, yet triumphant; sneered at, unsubdued;
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high;
Thy breast--if bare enough--requires no shield;
Dance forth--sans armour thou shalt take the field,
And own--impregnable to most assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz'.

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young hussar,
The whiskered votary of waltz and war,
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots;
A sight unmatched since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz!--beneath whose banners
A modern hero fought for modish manners;
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame,
Cocked--fired--and missed his man--but gained his aim;
Hail, moving Muse! to whom the fair one's breast
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz,
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits,
To "energize the object I pursue',
and give both Belial and his dance their due!

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine),
Long be thine import from all duty free,
And hock itself be less esteemed than thee;
In some few qualities alike--for hock
Improves our cellar--thou our living stock.
The head to hock belongs--thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs

Oh, Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below,
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's,
And only left us thy damned debts and dances!
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,
We bless thee still--for George the Third is left!
Of kinds the best--and last, not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions--don't we owe the queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
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 pardoned all her faults--
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen--and Waltz.