Text
At a London Music
Two rows of foolish faces blent
In two blurred lines; the compliment,
The formal smile, the cultured air,
The sense of falseness everywhere.
Her ladyship superbly dressed —
I liked their footman, John, the best.
The tired musician's ruffled mien,
Their whispered talk behind the screen,
The frigid plaudits, quite confined
By fear of being unrefined.
His lordship's grave and courtly jest —
I liked their footman, John, the best.
Remote I sat with shaded eyes,
Supreme attention in my guise,
And heard the whole laborious din,
Piano, 'cello, violin;
And so, perhaps, they hardly guessed
I liked their footman, John, the best.
