I'm going to write

It's my pride and delight—

On the very best part of an opera night;

When the singing is done
And the footmen walk on,
And all round and round
Besprinkle the ground,

And the sweet CORPS DE BALLET,

In muslin and chalis,

With their toes at right angles,

All covered with spangles

And other fine things,

Dance on from the wings,

And, like so many graces,
Chassez down to their places.
Here they wait till a smash,
Or grand orchestral crash,
Brings on, with a dash,

When the ballet has PERROT in,

Himself or the heroine.

I'm sure I don't know

Any one who can go

On the tip of his toe

And turn about so

But MONSIEUR PERROT.

I vow and declare

I do nothing but stare
When he cuts in the air,

And crosses his pair

Of beautiful pumps,
Every time that he jumps,

In a way that defies
Opera glasses or eyes
(So rapid's his motion)
To form any notion

Of the number of pas
Which, in spite of the laws

Of the earth's great attraction,
With immense satisfaction

He, in medias res,
Performs with such ease.
And when, with a bound,
He comes back to the ground
And spins round and round,
Like an obstinate top
That the deuce cannot stop,
Which twirls on its peg
As he does on one leg,

A little board slides on,
And CERITO glides on
With her toe to the ceiling,
Just think of her feeling

(From such things preserve us, As we're rather nervous!)

Of horror and terror,
If, by some fatal error,
When ready to start
For her fairy-like part,
The super, whose duty
Is to drag on the beauty,
Should chance to forget her,
Or, far worse, upset her!-
But see, they've began-
What a wonderful man!--

Just mark, when he strains

His neck, how he cranes,

And looks just as though

He could make himself grow,

At his special desire,

At least a foot higher!

See, he throws back his chest, Counts the proper bars' rest, And then he and his tights Have reached the foot-lights, Where he stops with a bow!— And it's Madame's turn, now.

I have often heard tell a

Tale of "Cinderella,"
Whose slipper so small

Was the wonder of all:

If you 'll bet, I'll give that in,

And back the white satin,

Now rising in air,

As one that would make its glass rival despair!

After forming a point

That no foot with a joint

Could ever achieve,

And no mortal believe,
Unless their own eyes
Beheld the surprise,
With a bound half as high

As the blue and dust sky

(Which proves, if she liked, the lady could fly!),

The danseuse will be

PERROT'S vis-à-vis ;

Then a chassez and twirl,

And all-round-the-stage-whirl,

At the top will discover

The pas-de-deux lover;

His hand neatly placed

Round dear CERITO's waist,

And so perfect their pose

On the tips of their toes,
That this "balance of power"
They can keep by the hour.

Now trumpets and drumming
Announce some one coming,

Which seems a sad blow

To poor MONSIEUR PERROT,

And equally so

TO MA'AMSELLE CERITO,

For they instantly part

With a hand on each heart,

And a look that might say—
"We wish quarter-day,

When we'd no means to pay,

Had happened to come
Instead of that drum

And its consequent hints—

We shall soon see the prince."

And such is the case;

For a very red face

And a very black wig,

And gloves very big,

And a cap and a feather,

Then come on together:

All which prove that the gent

Who wears them's the re-gent.

He having well frowned

On the supers around,

In his great power's latitude,

Strikes, as may be seen, a magnificent attitude :

His highness ne'er talks

Nor dances, but stalks,

And all about walks,

Like a great pedometer,

Or vile busy Peter,
Whose only delight

Is to vent his base spite,
And insist upon carrying
Off, and perhaps marrying,
The

very young woman

Who swears-" on earth no man,

Though she's far from ungrateful,

Can be half so hateful."

He then threatens force,

As a matter of course,

Swears homeward he'll drag her,

Claps his hand to his dagger
With an air of delirium

And horrid distraction,-
But the reader must know
This is all done by action,-
Then the guards are marched on
In a line one by one,

With cross-belts and pouches, And various cartouches;

And the order is given

To send up to heaven
The audacious varlet,

In white silk and scarlet,

Who has dared to ensnare The love of the fair, Who seems to consider, Although highest bidder And famed gay deluder, The prince an intruder. And just as the monster Declares that, at one stir Of his wicked forefinger, Should a single hand linger, Nor let off slap-bang His piece, he shall hang

His father or mother,

Or some one or other,
Rush on and declare

"If his highness but dare
Lay a hand on the pair,
He had better beware;
For they very well know
That his title 's no go,
As he happens to be

The youngest of three