Ben King's Verse/The Flowers' Ball

There is an olden story, 'Tis a legend, so I'm told, How the flowers gave a banquet, In the ivied days of old; How the posies gave a party once That wound up with a ball, How they held it in a valley, Down in "Flowery Kingdom Hall."

The flowers of every clime were there, Of high and low degree, All with their petals polished, In sweet aromatic glee. They met down in this woodland In the soft and ambient air, Each in its lolling loveliness, Exhaled a perfume rare.

An orchestra of Blue Bells Sat upon a mossy knoll And pealed forth gentle music That quite captured every soul. The Holly hocked a pistil Just to buy a suit of clothes, And danced with all the flowerets But the modest, blushing Rose.

The Morning Glory shining Seemed reflecting all the glow Of dawn, and took a partner; It was young Miss Mistletoe. Miss Maggie Nolia from the South Danced with Forget-me-not; Sweet William took Miss Pink in tow And danced a slow gavotte.

Thus everything went swimmingly 'Mongst perfumed belles and beaux, And every floweret reveled save The modest, blushing Rose. Miss Fuchsia sat around and told For floral emulation, That she had actually refused To dance with A. Carnation.

The Coxcomb, quite a dandy there, Began to pine and mope, Until he had been introduced To young Miss Heliotrope. Sir Cactus took Miss Lily, And he swung her so about She asked Sweet Pea to Cauliflower And put the Cactus out.

Miss Pansy took her Poppy And she waltzed him down the line Till they ran against old Sunflower With Miss Honeysuckle Vine. The others at the party that Went whirling through the mazy Were the Misses Rhodo Dendron, Daffodil and little Daisy.

Miss Petunia, Miss Verbena, Violet, And sweet Miss Dahlia Came fashionably late, arrayed In very rich regalia. Miss Begonia, sweet Miss Buttercup, Miss Lilac and Miss Clover; Young Dandelion came in late When all the feast was over.

The only flower that sent regrets And really couldn't come, Who lived in the four hundred, was The vain Chrysanthemum. One floweret at the table Grew quite ill, we must regret, And every posy wondered, too, Just what Miss Mignonette.

Young Tulip chose Miss Orchid From the first, and did not part With her until Miss Mary Gold Fell with a Bleeding Heart. But ah! Miss Rose sat pensively Till every young bud passed her; When just to fill the last quadrille, The China Aster.