LIKE to spend an evening out

In music and in mirth;

I think a party is about

The finest fun on earth:

And if I rarely patronise

The gay and giddy throng,

'Tis not, my friend, that I despise

The revel, dance, and song:

But I 've a dread I can't express

Of going out in Evening Dress.

I'm partial to the British stage;

And—spite of its decline—

The Drama, from a tender age,

Has been a love of mine.

You ask me why I seldom go,

And why I always sit

In one distinct, unvaried row—

(The second of the pit);

'Tis not because it costs me less,

But all along of Evening Dress.

I hate the habits which denote

The slave to Fashion's rule;

I hate the black, unwieldy coat

Which makes one look a fool.

I execrate the Gibus hat

(Collapsing with a spring),

The shiny boots, the white cravat,

And nearly everything

That's worn by dandies who profess

To be au fait in Evening Dress.

My braces break—a button goes—

My razor gives a slip,

And cuts me either on my nose

Or else upon my lip;

Or, while I'm cabbing to the place,

A lot of mud or dirt

Gets plaster'd either on my face,

Or else upon my shirt.

In fact, I always make a mess

Of that confounded Evening Dress.