Muse of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms Are now extended up from legs to arms; Terpsichore!--too long misdeem'd a maid-- Reproachful term--bestow'd but to upbraid-- Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. Far be from thee and thine the name of prude; Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued; Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, If but thy coats are reasonably high; Thy breast, if bare enough, requires no shield: Dance forth--_sans armour_ thou shalt take the field, And own--impregnable to _most_ assaults, Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz". Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young huzzar, The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, His night devotes, despite of spurs and boots; A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes: Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! beneath whose banners A modern hero fought for modish manners; On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame, Cock'd, fired, and miss'd his man--but gain'd his aim: Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. Oh, for the flow of Busby or of Fitz, The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, To "energize the object I pursue", And give both Belial and his dance their due! Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine (Famed for the growth of pedigree and wine), Long be thine import from all duty free, And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; In some few qualities alike--for hock Improves our cellar--_thou_ our living stock. The head to hock belongs--thy subtler art Intoxicates alone the heedless heart: Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. O Germany! how much to thee we owe, As heaven-born Pitt can testify below. Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, And only left us thy d--d debts and dances! Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, We bless thee still--for George the Third is left! Of kings the best, and last not least in worth, For graciously begetting George the Fourth. To Germany, and highnesses serene, Who owe us millions--don't we owe the queen? To Germany, what owe we not besides? So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides: Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud; Who sent us--so be pardon'd all our faults-- A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen--and Waltz. But peace to her, her emperor and diet, Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!" Back to thy theme--O Muse of motion! say, How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?