This dance of death which sounds so musically
Was sure intended for the corpse de ballet.

This dance of death which sounds so musically
Was sure intended for the corpse de ballet.

Those who hear not the music think the dancers mad

Those who hear not the music think the dancers mad

O give me new figures! I can't go on dancing
The same that were taught me ten seasons ago;
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O give me new figures! I can't go on dancing
The same that were taught me ten seasons ago;
The schoolmaster over the land is advancing,
Then why is the master of dancing so slow?
It is such a bore to be always caught tripping
In dull uniformity year after year;
Invent something new, and you'll set me a skipping:
I want a new figure to dance with my Dear!

My dancing days are done.

My dancing days are done.

Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who
could not hear the music.

Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who
could not hear the music.

Such pains, such pleasures now alike are o'er,
And beaus and etiquette shall soon exist no more
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Such pains, such pleasures now alike are o'er,
And beaus and etiquette shall soon exist no more
At their speed behold advancing
Modern men and women dancing;
Step and dress alike express
Above, below from heel to toe,
Male and female awkwardness.
Without a hoop, without a ruffle,
One eternal jig and shuffle,
Where's the air and where's the gait?
Where's the feather in the hat?
Where the frizzed toupee? and where
Oh! where's the powder for the hair?

Twelve dancers are dancing, and taking no rest,
And closely their hands together are press'd;
And soon read more

Twelve dancers are dancing, and taking no rest,
And closely their hands together are press'd;
And soon as a dance has come to a close,
Another begins, and each merrily goes.

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
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Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;
Old fold and young together, and children mingled among them.

Dancing is silent poetry.

Dancing is silent poetry.