File:The Buntling ball, a Græco-American play; (1884) (14776255722).jpg

Identifier: buntlingballgrco00fawc (find matches)
Title: The Buntling ball, a Græco-American play;
Year: 1884 (1880s)
Authors: Fawcett, Edgar, 1847-1904
Subjects: Socialites
Publisher: New York (etc.) Funk & Wagnalls
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

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declare, A more exquisite airThan our darling, our pet, and our paragon. More supple than willow or hickoryWhen trained by the bow-bearers trickery, Thy feet can explore The expanse of the floorIn a style that would startle Terpsichore. Each maiden is fondly insatiateHerself in thy heart to ingratiate, And all of our clique Could continue a weekOn thy personal charms to expatiate. 74 THE BUNTLING BALL. Chorus of Wall-flowers.Cease, O girls, your daring song,Full of adulation madFor the nimble-footed ladWhom your fulsome praises wrong.Gazing on your dainty throng,Well we mark you sneer and pout;Well we know ye scorn and floutThem that now severely chide.Much, ye deem, our eyes would seeIn the form of Filigree,If twere not our doom to mopeFar from his approving glance,Everlastingly deniedAny little spark of hopeThat his feet will pause besideUs whom no one asks to dance.Rightly have ye judged perchance;Yet the lonely wall-flowers brood,In their sad neglected stateOf perpetual solitude;
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76 THE BUN TUNG BALL. Oft they muse and cogitate On the conduct bold and rude Of the belles more fortunate. Oft they make their murmur low At your sentiments imbued With such artificial glow. Ah, we lonely wall-flowers guess All your schemes, astute and shrewd, All the deep, deceptive wiles, All the Machiavellian smiles That accomplish your success, Leaning limp against the wall, With no gardener at all To relieve our irksome lot. Fain our tendrils would incline With dependence feminine Toward some stout supporting bole ; Yet we may secure it not, And the yearning must control Of each disappointed soul. Never may the wall-flower tell, THE BUXTLIXG BALL. 77 Though she ponder many hours,Just by what peculiar spellShe is unlike other flowers;Never may she learn the whenceOf such doleful difference.Though she strive with all her powers,Never may she be a belle !This alone she understands,While the seasons run their sands,And the dread more darkly lowersOf a spinsters hated name.Surely tis

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