In the Boxes

It isn't so much in the cost of her gown;
It isn't the colour or shade,
That causes her rival to stare up and down,
From the tip of her shoe to her smart bonnet crown;
But it's all in the way it is made.

It may be of chiffon, of silk, or of lace,
The rarest that weaver can weave;
It may be of cloth, or of cotton; but trace
The jealousy rife in each feminine face
If she has one yard more in each sleeve.

She may be imposing, or proper, or pert;
Her eyes may be brown, blue or black.
Be she pretty or plain, be she flippant or flirt,
It matters but little, so long as her skirt
Has five organ plaits in the back.

She may bet with the boys, or plunge into the pools,
Or else be religious and staid;
But her sweet little Ladyship stands there and rules,
For her gown is the envy of sages and fools;
But it's all in the way it is made.
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