THE BALLET. "THE POETRY OF MOTION." 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 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, 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 And crosses his pair Of beautiful pumps, In a way that defies Of the number of pas Of the earth's great attraction, He, in medias res, T A little board slides on, (From such things preserve us, As we're rather nervous!) Of horror and terror, 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," 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, 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, Now trumpets and drumming 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— When we'd no means to pay, Had happened to come 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, Is to vent his base spite, 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 And horrid distraction,- With cross-belts and pouches, And various cartouches; And the order is given To send up to heaven 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, "If his highness but dare The youngest of three |