They met in the hall, at a Charity Ball,
    Patronised by the pink of Society,
They were both in a state, I grieve to relate,
    That the Clergyman calls insobriety.

He wanted to know was she comme il faut,
    Or whether her manner was shadylike,
And he wondered in doubt, as she lowered a stout,
    In a style more proficient than ladylike.

He asked might he call, the night after the Ball,
    If she’s pardon his impetuosity,
She embraced him and said, "You must come home to bed,
    Just to show there is no animosity."

She sang him a song, as they rattled along,
    There were verses a little bit blue in it,
And a story she told of adventures of old,
    With a queer situation or two in it.

When they went to repose, and he threw off his clothes,
    In his anxious excitement to doss it, he
Was knocked when she bid him fork out two quid,
    Just to show there was no animosity.

‘Twas a little bit rough, but he forked out the stuff,
    Though he though it was very absurd of her,
Then she went down below, for a moment or so,
    And that was the last that he heard of her.

For a big-shouldered lout came and lumbered him out,
    And used him with awful ferocity,
He was very much hurt, but they chucked him his shirt,
    Just to show there was no animosity.