"You used to talk," said Miss Mac Call,
"Of flowers, and flames, and Cupid;
But now you never talk at all.
You're getting vastly stupid.
You'd better burn your Blackstone, Sir,
You never will get through it;
There's a Fancy Ball at Winchester--
Do let us take you to it."

I made that night a solemn vow,
To startle all beholders:
I wore white muslin on my brow,
Green velvet on my shoulders--
My trousers were supremely wide,
I learn'd to swear "by Allah"--
I stuck a poniard by my side,
And called myself "Abdallah."

Oh! a Fancy Ball's a strange affair,
Made up of silks and leathers,
Light heads, light heels, false hearts, false hair,
Pins, paint, and ostrich feathers:
The dullest Duke in all the town,
To-night may shine a droll one--
And rakes, who have not half-a-crown,
Look royal with a whole one.

Hail, blest Confusion! here are met
All tongues, and times, and faces,