  THE sweetest joy for him on earth Was not the Menad’s maddened mirth, For him no subtle joyance hid The blood-feast of the Bassarid; But when unto the village green, The Strephons came with modest mien, And bashful Chloes there would steal, He gaily danced a Highland reel. The manor’s lord—he knew not why— His cards bore only plain “Sir Guy”; Nor had he e’er been known to claim, In peace or war, another name. Of noble blood and ancient race, Of lissom limb and florid face, He scorned his rent-roll, though ’twas big, And revelled in the Irish jig. Of Irish blood and Scotch descent, New grace to jig and reel he lent; But, being British to the core, He would not England’s dance ignore. To see him nimbly twist and bound. Before he blessed them and withdrew, He always danced a hornpipe too. From youth to manhood, day by day, Sir Guy would dance the years away, Beloved by all he lived among, The grave and gay, the old and young; Performing for the common weal The jig, the hornpipe, and the reel. And these he might be dancing yet, Had he not made a foolish bet. It happened thus. To Arcadee There came one day a young M.P. Who sneered, when flushed with beer and wine, At all things human and Divine. He joined the crowd upon the green, Assumed a supercilious mien, And when Sir Guy had done, he said, “A kid could lick him on its head.” The crowd drew back in sudden awe, Which, when the sneering stranger saw, He flung his glove upon the ground, And cried, “Sir Guy, a thousand pound I’ll bet you that you cannot dance A little thing I saw in France: Its English name’s the Rigadoon.” Sir Guy replied, “Good-afternoon. The tenants eyed their lord askance— There was a step he could not dance! For jigs and reels they did not care, And said the hornpipe they could spare. Sir Guy exclaimed, while tears he wept, “The situation I accept; I’ll win that thousand of the loon, And you shall have your Rigadoon.” With saddened face and humbled head, To foreign shores the dancer fled— And haunted France’s village greens, And gay guinguettes and lowly scenes, He learned “Ça Ira” how to troll, He learned the curious Carmagnole; He found the can-can very soon, But could not find the Rigadoon. * * * * º A wanderer from a foreign strand One summer reached his native land, He sought the green of days gone by, But no one recognised Sir Guy. A crowd came up—he gave a bound— Cried, “See me win the thousand pound! Behold! my friends, this afternoon Your lord will dance a Rigadoon! He danced his dance with pride and glee, But silence fell on Arcadee. The tenants frowned, and looked askance, They called it an improper dance, And begged he would at once desist, As Mr. Burns, the Socialist, Required the ground that afternoon, They didn’t want “no Rigadoon”! MORAL (SLIGHTLY MIXED).The young M.P. had run in debt, Was “broke,” and could not pay his bet. The natives jeered the twists and turns, And spurned their squire for Mr. Burns. This proves how mad we are to roam In search of steps too far from home; Prize British dances as a boon, And leave the French their Rigadoon. |
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