Mrs. Doolan’s Christmas Ball
--------------------------------
THE other night my wife proposed that we should give a ball,
I might not bother my dear head, she would arrange it all,
And fill the spacious Town Hall with brave women and fair men—
Our names would be immortalized by editorial pen.
I had my third strong tumbler down, and felt that I was done;
I might object, but later on I must give in my gun.
I hate responsibility, so left it all to her—
Then for a week, oh holy smoke, I had not room to stir,
Velvet, satins, piles of lace, and some stuff called chiffon;
Feathers, flowers, bangles, till my head was fairly gone.
Under skirts and over skirts, with every kind of fan,
And fifty other fol-de-dols mysterious to man.
The tone of conversation heard from morning until night
Was “Miss McGuffin” will wear blue, Miss Gibbons goes in white.”
I remonstrated with our cook, complained the steak was rare;
She said it’s nice with violets and sprigs of maiden hair.
The night arrived and with it came a carriage to my door;
We drove away, arrived in time to meet full seven score;
Such fashion and variety, such dresses and such swells,
The ladies voices soft and low, so like sweet chiming bells.
These lovely creatures floated round like angers without wings—
Some say that women’s tempers change when wearing plain gold rings—
You never could select the belle, or even yet surmise,
Each lady was par excellence; and talk about sheep’s eyes—
The Japanese artillery, if managed with such skill,
Would force the bear to knuckle down and hug them with a will.
The gentlemen were up to date, and all wore swallow tails,
White tall collars out of sight and cuffs down to their nails,
Bouquets of the rarest plants, with perfume rich and rare,
Moustaches waxed to point like pins, and not a struggling hair.
A lot of gay light-hearted youths on fun and pleasure bent;
And every dog will have his day, so let them be content;
But matrimony and its cares will teach them later on
To “bring your umbrella with you, John, John, John.”
The musical selections were exquisitively grand,
Dancing soon commenced, but, och, marrone, not dancing with the feet,
More like the ring-or-roses that the kind play in the street.
They called the dance the “lancers”, but I could not make it out—
They bowed. They scraped and twisted round, then twisted round about,
Take your partners, polka round, and then all ladies star-
They start the “D’Albert,” but I started for the bar—
I took a few of special then, I smoked a perfumed fag,
I wore a coat with tails on it just like a willy wag.
My blood got up. I pushed my way—some ladies said “how rude”—
And found my little queen at last in converse with a dude,
“Och, Peggy, oh,” asthore, machree, I’m rusty for a dance,
I don’t like those dead marches brought from Germany or France;
You know right well, my little queen, just how a fellow feels,
With that sensation working him—a heartbeat in the heels.”
She smiled, I took her hand in mine, then to the band aloud,
“Strike up the "Rocky Roads’, my boys, then give us "Miss McLeod.”
Then, och, marrone, we footed it in real ould Irish style,
And showed them how a pair could dance in Erin’s lovely isle.
Dancing was kept up until the darkness was reversed—
We had the parting drop, and then we quietly dispersed.
My little wife and I got home with morning’s first red beams,
Then took a cabin-passage for the happy land of dreams.
Next I heard my servant say “my boss is still in bed,”
I scrambled out to feel the drop still working in my head.
I danced the “Rakes of Mallow”, till my wife began to shout,
“Why Larry Doolan, are you mad, or what are you about?”
And there she was, my little queen, with tear drops on her lids;
Her curling pins were cocking up like horns on young kids.
She caught the influenza, and, of course, was very ill—
Herself to blame; she got the ball, but I would get the bill;
Her nose was swollen, one eye closed, the other on me fixed—
She said “to be or not to be,” continued in my next.
Larry Doolan
Ballina, 10th August, 1907.
No comments:
Post a Comment