Chapter Six: The Buckland Ball

As summer arrived in all its languorous splendor, Frodo felt happier than he had since the death of his parents. Indeed, a sense of profound contentment seemed to have mellowed all the denizens of Brandy Hall.

The pipeweed crop was thriving; the plants maturing and growing rapidly—at least, the ones that had survived transplant root rot, ensuing bouts of blue mold and brown spot, and an infestation of budworms. Rory was thriving too, having survived the acute distress brought on by these afflictions, and was eagerly making preparations for the first harvest. He ordered construction to begin on leaf-curing sheds, built to the specifications of plans Hamilcar had brought with him from Longbottom.

Even Gilda and Hortensia had made their peace, having found common ground in a love of gardening. Gilda’s roses were the finest in Buckland, and Hortensia couldn’t heap enough praise on them. They spent pleasant hours wandering among the flower beds, talking and planting…that is, Hortensia rhapsodized about the joys of planting while Gilda poked holes in the earth with the end of her cane—her rheumatism made bending painful—dropped in seeds, and used the cane to push the soil back in place.

Fluffy was now able to banish Garm from the hearth with a mere look, and both dogs seemed more at ease now that they had a clearly established routine.

The only one who was not happy was Merry. Whenever he suggested a swimming or fishing excursion, as often as not Frodo said he was busy and disappeared for hours at a time, showing up only for meals with ink stains on his sleeves and a faraway expression on his face. Even when Merry could cajole his cousin into joining him, he would seem distant and preoccupied.

Frodo’s own happiness was marred only by the approach of midsummer and with it, the sense of melancholy that settled over him every year around this time. For it was at midsummer that his parents had died. However, he found comfort now in his poetry and his ardent dreams of Hyacinth. And this summer brought a new distraction: now that he was in his tweens, he would be attending the Buckland Ball for the first time.

The prospect was both exciting and more than a little intimidating. To be sure, he had danced the Springle-Ring and the Haysend Stomp at many a local festival or family celebration. But the Buckland Ball was something else entirely—the social event of the season for the landed gentry of Buckland and the Marish. Many a successful match was arranged at the ball, with parents haggling over dowries while their offspring danced and flirted.

Preparations had been underway for weeks, and now all was in readiness. A huge wooden dance floor was laid out in front of Brandy Hall, colored lanterns strung from the trees, refreshment tables set up around the sides, a platform erected for the musicians and caller. The faunts had been put to bed early, Merry complaining loudly all the while, and threatening to climb out his window and watch the festivities from the top of the Buck Hill. His parents were unimpressed.

* * *

An hour before the ball was to begin, Frodo stood before his open wardrobe feeling completely out of his depth. He did not as a rule give much thought to his attire, usually content to throw on whatever garments were lying atop the heap by his bed where he had shed them the night before. He normally wore something until he outgrew it or until Biddy Twofoot, the Brandy Hall laundress, forcibly confiscated it, scolding Frodo that it was so worn and ragged it was fit only for burning.

Now he surveyed his clothing with a newly critical eye, pulling out first one article, then another. A fine cream-colored linen shirt, one that he wore only on holidays, hung clean and pressed on the rack…a good start. And his best black breeches would do nicely, as would the new braces he had received on Saradoc’s birthday last month. But then there was the matter of a waistcoat…

While he owned several, none of them seemed quite right. There was the dark, somber one with matching jacket that he wore to graveside ceremonies on Longfather’s Day. And the bright woolen ones with silly designs that Aunt Gilda knitted for him every Yule. His rough, everyday weskits were completely out of the question.

Defeated, Frodo sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling like nothing so much as a helpless, bewildered child. He had felt the loss of his parents so often, and in so many different settings over the past eight years, that he thought he had experienced every possible way of missing them. But now he had discovered another: while dressing for his first ball. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to imagine how it would have been. His father would have advised him on what to wear, helping with his cuff links and adjusting his braces. His mother would have fussed over him, combing his hair and telling him how fine he looked…

A soft tap on the door interrupted his wistful reverie. Esmeralda, looking lovely in a crimson satin ball gown, swept in carrying something wrapped up in tissue paper. "Frodo! Why aren’t you dressed yet?"

"I have nothing to wear," said Frodo forlornly.

"Oh yes you have!" she smiled, holding out the bundle.

Setting it on his bed, Frodo pulled the tissue paper aside and gasped in amazement and delight. It was a waistcoat, of deep blue damask embroidered with a graceful pattern of vines and flowers, and leaf-shaped buttons of delicately carved bone. It was like nothing he’d ever worn before—elegant and sophisticated, it was grown-up attire.

Frodo looked up at his aunt, and finally found his voice. "Did…did you make this, Aunt Ezzie?"

"Yes indeed…I bought the silk from that trader who came through from Bree last fall and worked the embroidery over the winter. Didn’t turn out so badly, did it?" she said with a touch of pride.

"Oh Auntie, it’s wonderful!" cried Frodo, flinging himself at her and crushing her in a hug.

"Easy now, lad, or you’ll wrinkle my gown," laughed Ezzie, pushing him away. "Quick now, try it on—I want to check the fit." She buttoned it for him, then stepped back for a look and smiled. "It’s perfect! Quite the young gentlehobbit you look in it, I must say! You’ll be turning the lasses’ heads tonight, see if you don’t!"

Frodo looked so nervous at this pronouncement that Esmeralda quickly changed the subject. "Now, do you remember the dance steps we practiced this winter? Come on, let’s take a quick turn!" And she caught his hands and led him in a lively romp around the room till they were both laughing and breathless.

"Aunt Ezzie…I don’t know how to thank you," said Frodo when they finally stopped, still holding her hands in his.

"Enjoy this night, Frodo," she replied softly. "That’s all the thanks I want." She reached up to brush a stray curl out of his eyes and added, "Don’t forget to comb your hair, now!" before hurrying out.

After dressing and combing his hair, Frodo regarded himself dubiously in the mirror, mentally checking off all his imagined defects: too pale, too thin, too…anxious? He sighed. Still, he was tall enough, at least. And the waistcoat looked very fine indeed.

* * *

It was a lovely night for a dance: the scent of jasmine sweetened the warm, gentle breeze and the crescent moon gleamed like a silver brooch pinned against black velvet, set amidst a thousand glittering gems. Flickering torches and glowing lanterns bathed the hobbits’ faces in soft, golden light, lending them a measure of beauty beyond their normal share.

Quite a large gathering was already assembled by the time Frodo left the smial, the ladies gathered in small clusters admiring each other’s gowns and the male-folk smoking and jesting by the refreshment tables, downing mugs of ale to fortify themselves for the evening’s exertions. Up on the platform, musicians tuned their fiddles and mandolins, or practiced riffs on flute and concertina.

With no effort at all Frodo immediately spotted Hyacinth in a group of other lasses, and the sight took his breath away. Her pink taffeta ball gown shimmered in the torchlight, bringing out the delicate blush of her cheeks and perfectly matching the cluster of roses fastened in her hair. The low-cut neckline bared her white shoulders, giving Frodo a strange, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a moment or two he recovered his wits sufficiently to realize that for once there were no other lads nearby, and that he would likely never have a better chance to secure Hyacinth’s promise of a dance.

As he approached the group he could see his cousin Floribunda Brandybuck glance his way and with a smirk lean over to whisper something to the others. Several giggled, and Frodo could feel the blood rushing to his face. But with a great effort of will he kept going.

"Yes, little Cousin Frodo seems to be growing up very nicely," said Mavis Burrows as he walked up, making no particular effort to lower her voice.

"Don’t tease him!" reproved Hyacinth, then she turned to Frodo with a friendly smile.

"Hello, Cousin! What a lovely waistcoat!"

Frodo swallowed hard and hoped his voice wouldn’t crack. "Thank you, Hyacinth," he managed. "And you, you look…"

But before he could say how she looked a shout went up from the company as the Master and the Mistress of the Hall made their entrance.

"Come on, Frodo!" cried Mavis, seizing him by the elbow, and without knowing quite how it happened, Frodo found himself falling into line for the Grand March with the wrong partner. Looking back over his shoulder unhappily, he could see Hyacinth being escorted to the dance floor by his cousin Cederic.

But there was no time to fret as the music had now commenced, and the hobbits began their promenade around the floor. Rory’s brother Saradas was acting as caller. This was not considered a very seemly role for the Master’s close kin, but "Big Sara," as he was known, had a good voice and as he enjoyed it, no one was prepared to gainsay him. He now launched into the traditional opening song:

Strike up drowsy gut-scrapers;
Gallants, be ready
Each with his Lady;
Foot it about
Till the Night be run out;
Let no one’s humour pall

Rory, never able for long to watch someone else having more fun than he was, now leaped up on the musicians’ stand and, throwing his arm around his brother, sang along with him on the last verse:

Brisk lads, now cut your capers;
Put your legs to’t,
And show you can do’t;
Frisk, frisk it away
Till break of Day,
And hey for Buckland Ball!

The crowd joined in on the last line and a cheer went up as the song ended. Without further ado the band struck up the Black Bull—a fast reel—and the dancing began in earnest. The hobbits quickly formed into sets of six couples, with partners facing each other in two lines.

"Honor your partner!" called Saradas, and the lines advanced and bowed or curtseyed, then stepped back again.

"Forward and turn with the right hand round," came the next call, and the hobbits at the head and foot of the lines advanced to meet in the middle, join hands and turn once about before returning to their places.

Frodo was still paired with Mavis but spoke to her very little, pretending to concentrate on his steps. As the dance progressed, the two of them gradually moved up to the head of their lines.

"Top couple reel the set! Right to your partner, left to the next!"

As he went down the line, linking arms and swinging each lady round in turn, Frodo tried to catch a glimpse of Hyacinth, but she and Cederic were dancing in another group and he couldn’t see them without craning his neck rather obviously. He found himself swinging round with Esmeralda, who winked at him.

When Saradas announced the Merry Maiden as the next dance, Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, he would be able to change partners.

The Merry Maiden was for tweens only, so was not considered a courtship dance in the same sense as those reserved for eligible hobbits—that is, ones who had already come of age. It was intended rather as a wholesome introduction to the art of flirting. At least, that was the idea. But the reality was that the tween years covered a lot of ground, and there was a yawning gap between a shy lad of twenty, just out of puberty, and a worldly lass of thirty-one or thirty-two—expert in outwitting her chaperones and impatient to come of age.

So the dance always made for some interesting situations, and was watched with great amusement by the older hobbits. It was one of the few dances that called for partners to change midway through. And it was a kissing dance… which meant that Saradas could, at his discretion, call honor your partner or kiss your partner.

After starting off with some standard reel patterns, Saradas then called one of the Merry Maiden’s signature steps, the High Hey, drawing a ripple of laughter from dancers and onlookers alike. The term was strictly a Buckland joke. The hobbits formed two circles, lasses on the inside, lads out, and moved past each other in opposite directions, weaving in and out in a serpentine pattern and clasping hands at shoulder height as they passed.

"Change partners!" called Big Sara, and when they stopped Frodo found himself opposite Floribunda. She flashed him a predatory grin and he groaned inwardly. Please don’t let it be…

There was a moment of suspense until Saradas, after a cruelly long pause, announced, "Honor your partner!"

Sighs of disappointment were heard from the onlookers as the tweens greeted each other politely before re-forming into reel lines. Hyacinth was now in Frodo’s group, paired with Rob Maggot, and his spirits rose a little. At least he would get the chance to swing once round with her as she and Rob went down the dance.

It was during a Straight Hey, the two lines passing alternately to the left and right, that it happened: without warning Sara again called, "Change partners!"

The dancers immediately froze in place, and Frodo could hardly believe his good fortune—smiling at him across the line was Hyacinth! His heart began racing wildly. Coronel stood next to him, newly paired with Lila Meriwether, a shy, pretty lass barely into her tweens and, like Frodo, attending her first ball.

And now it was time for the new partners to exchange greetings. But which would it be: honor your partner, or…

"Kiss your partner!" sang out Saradas.

Anyone not already watching the dancers eagerly turned towards them now. On Frodo’s right, Blossom Fairchild and Cosmo Broadfoot, older tweens who were practically betrothed, needed no second urging to bound forward and engage in a rather lusty and prolonged clinch, to the approving cheers of the crowd. To the left, Lila stared at Coronel with all the wide-eyed terror of a coney in a trap. She closed her eyes and held her breath, but Coronel only smiled and, stepping forward, brushed a chaste kiss on her cheek. Her eyes flew open again and a curious mix of relief and indignation flashed across her face.

Suddenly Frodo realized that everyone else had followed Sara’s instructions, and the entire group was now waiting—for him. Even the musicians were marking time. Hyacinth was looking at him expectantly, but still Frodo stood as if rooted to the ground. How often had he imagined this moment—but not like this, with half of Buckland looking on! He heard hoots and calls coming from the audience.

Finally Saradas himself intervened, shouting, "Well nephew, are you going to get on with it before the night ends?" A roar of laughter went up at this.

Taking a deep breath, Frodo advanced and bowed.

Some murmurs arose: "What’s he up to, that wasn’t the call!"

But Frodo wasn’t finished. He took Hyacinth’s hand and, bending over it, brushed it with a light kiss.

"Ohhh," sighed more than one matron in the crowd. "Isn’t he the perfect little gentlehobbit! So proper and courteous!"

Hyacinth herself appeared surprised, but nonetheless pleased. And then the dancers were off again, as Saradas sang:

The merry merry maiden
The merry merry maiden
Sing hey the merry maiden and the squire!

When the dance finally ended in a burst of applause and laughter, the musicians paused and laid down their instruments. Frodo was glad for the respite, needing time to catch his breath and settle his nerves. But now he found himself confronted with a new challenge. Hyacinth seemed to be waiting for him to do something again, and he struggled to recall Esmeralda’s instructions on ball etiquette. At the end of a set always escort your partner from the floor, and inquire if she will take some refreshment. With some trepidation he offered her his arm, and was relieved when she took it. Encouraged by this success, he ventured, "May I bring you a cup of punch, Hyacinth?"

"Why yes, Frodo, thank you!" she smiled. "I’m frightfully parched after that set."

He escorted Hyacinth to the refreshment tables, where her mother and some of the ladies of the Hall quickly waylaid them.

"How charmingly you danced, my dear," gushed Hortensia. "And such fine manners displayed by your young partner here—Dodo, isn’t it?" she added with a magnanimous nod to Frodo. "Really, I hardly expected such refinement in these parts."

Several affronted gasps and dark looks met this last remark. Feeling a sudden, intense desire to be elsewhere, Frodo fetched Hyacinth’s punch, then fled to safer ground.

He wandered over to the musicians’ stand, where young Curley Brownlock was playing lead fiddle. One of the hired hands on the Brandybuck estate, Curley had formed the other half of Frodo’s infamous Bunce brothers reenactment during the Blotmath’s Eve revelries of 1383. He had only grown more stolid and taciturn with age, but Frodo knew how to break through that seemingly impassive exterior.

"’Twas only a grape!" he whispered as he sidled up to him, and smiled as Curley started and blushed.

"Go on with you Master Frodo," he frowned, though Frodo saw the telltale hint of a twinkle in his eye. "I’m busy with me music, in case you hadn’t noticed."

"Indeed I hadn’t noticed, Master Corwin!" Frodo replied teasingly. "If anyone were to ask me, in fact, I should have said that you were taking a break just now." Since Frodo had never succeeded in getting Curley to stop calling him Master, he had resorted instead to addressing him in kind…a practice that irked Curley no end.

"Well I reckon we earned it, didn’t we," he countered, "after working so hard to give you lads a chance to get in a kiss and a squeeze—a chance, I might add, that was purely wasted by some as I saw on the floor!" He was grinning broadly now, and it was Frodo’s turn to blush.

Back at the refreshment tables, Hortensia was growing bored. "The Black Bull and the Merry Maiden are all very well for the young people," she drawled, drawing a fan from her bodice, snapping it open, and waving it languidly. "But what I truly long for is a gay ländler!"

Rory’s sisters Amaranth and Asphodel exchanged puzzled glances. "What’s a…ländler?" asked Amaranth, pronouncing the strange word hesitantly.

"Why, it’s a dance, of course," replied Hortensia in a slightly superior tone.

"It’s all the rage in Bree," Hyacinth put in eagerly.

"Bree?" Am was now completely nonplussed.

"Yes, Hamilcar does such a lot of business there that we’ve taken a small house in Breetown," Hortensia said casually, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. "We often go up for the season, they do throw such amusing parties! With so many travelers coming in from goodness knows where, they’re always up on all manner of new fashions and dances long before we hear about them in the Shire."

Amaranth became very quiet at this. But Asphodel was not so easily daunted. "So," she pursued skeptically, "just what’s so special about this ländler you were speaking of?"

"Well, the ländler is…it’s like nothing you’ve ever imagined," said Hortensia dreamily. "It’s as close to flying as you can get, without ever leaving the ground…" She trailed off, then sighed. "But what’s the use in trying to explain…it’s hopeless without the music."

Hamilcar was standing nearby, deep in discussion with Rory on the best method of curing pipeweed. While he had not appeared to be listening to the ladies’ conversation, he turned toward them now with an indulgent smile. "I say there, Benton," he called to one of his servants, who was hovering at a discreet but convenient distance, "you’re handy with the old ‘gut scraper’…come over and play us a ländler, there’s a good fellow!"

Benton bowed. "Very good, sir." He approached Curley. "By your leave…?" he said courteously.

Curley relinquished his fiddle with some reluctance, then looked on in surprise as Benton drew the bow gently across the strings, producing a soft, tremulous note quite unlike the instrument’s usual sprightly sound. After several more trials and tuning adjustments, he began to play.

Curley stood as one spellbound, listening to the unfamiliar music. "Well I never—he’s playing in three-quarters time!" he said, his voice soft with wonder.

Frodo, who was not very knowledgeable about things musical, looked at him blankly.

"I mean the song has a three-count beat, with the first count being the strongest. Listen, and you’ll hear it: ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three…"

Frodo did hear it: a rolling, infectious rhythm. But it was the melody that enthralled him, a melody that seemed to overflow with longing, desire, and tenderness. Its haunting beauty filled him with rapture, even as tears sprang to his eyes.

One by one the other musicians began to play along with Benton, hesitantly at first, but growing gradually stronger and more confident as they mastered the strange new rhythm. The music swelled joyously, stilling conversation and jolting the senses of all who heard it like an intoxicating draught.

And now the senior Hornblowers were stepping out onto the dance floor. He bowed, she curtsied…and that was the last recognizable thing they did. Hortensia stepped in very close to her husband, until their bodies were almost touching, and placed her hand on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm about her waist, then stooped and with his free hand gathered up her skirt and petticoats so that they cleared the floor by several inches. The crowd gasped.

"I can see her…limbs!" said Asphodel in a stage whisper. At that there was a sudden stampede of male hobbits trying to get a better view of the dance floor. While Hortensia was on the far side of sixty and had a figure that could best be described as healthy, she was still undeniably attractive.

Then they were off, gliding gracefully around the floor to the music’s lilting strains in a way that was most remarkable to see. With each three-count measure they made a full turn, even as they circled the floor. Hamilcar held his wife so close that they moved as one, their steps executed in perfect union.

An excited murmur arose from their captivated audience. "Positively indecent," someone muttered. "Look at them pressin’ themselves together, just like somethin’ else I could mention but won’t!" But others glanced speculatively at their partners…Was it possible? Perhaps, just perhaps…

Hyacinth was watching her parents longingly, swaying a little with the music. As they whirled by, Hortensia called out: "Horatio! Ask your sister to dance!"

"No!" cried Hyacinth and Horatio in unison, the same look of horror on both of their faces.

Suddenly Coronel was standing in front of Hyacinth, bowing. "May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Hornblower?"

She stared at him in surprise. "You know it?"

Coronel grinned cockily. "The Hornblowers aren’t the only fashionable folk in the Shire, you know!" he said, clasping her slender waist and taking up her skirts. If there had been a stampede before, now a minor brawl broke out at the edge of the dance floor. "Some of my Took relatives have done a bit of traveling in their time, and learned a thing or two along the way—like the ländler!" As he said this last he spun her about, and then they sailed off across the floor.

If the onlookers had thought the Hornblowers looked well dancing, now their eyes were opened to the ländler’s real glory. In Coronel’s arms Hyacinth seemed almost to be floating, a lovely, ethereal creature with laughing eyes and flushed cheeks. Around and around they twirled as the music played ever faster, never missing a step—a perfectly matched pair. Hamilcar and Hortensia had long since given it up and retreated to the sidelines, panting and red-faced, where Hortensia collapsed in a chair and called weakly for water as she fanned herself.

Frodo watched, mesmerized, along with everyone else. As he did so, envy overtook amazement and he felt his first twinge of unease about Coronel. The older tween seemed to be enjoying himself entirely too much, considering his position as Frodo’s confidant and messenger. With even greater alarm he noted the look of blissful abandon on Hyacinth’s face, her eyes now closed as in a happy dream.

Just then, as if he could read Frodo’s thoughts, Coronel paused on their next pass near him. "Care to give it a try, lad?" he said with a wink. Hyacinth smiled at him encouragingly.

At the heady prospect of taking her in his arms, Frodo was sorely tempted to abandon all reason and say yes! But it was clear to him that the ländler was far beyond his newly acquired dancing skills, and that they wouldn’t take two steps before he tripped up Hyacinth, or himself, or both. This thought proved the more compelling of the two, and he quickly shook his head.

Coronel shrugged and smiled. "As you please," he said, and off they flew again.

A final flourish from the fiddler, a bow and curtsey from the dancers, and it was over. The hobbits applauded wildly, and moments later were clustered about the breathless couple, peppering them with questions about the exotic new dance.

Curley was huddled with Benton, saying, "Now show me again how you play that bit—and what did you say it was called?"

"That, my friend, was the Merry Widow," said Benton reverently.

Eventually, everyone settled down and went back to their reels. But the seed was planted, and within a season or two the ländler had spread from Longbottom, the Great Smials, and Buckland to every corner of the land as its seductive music and scandalous steps took the Shire by storm.

Frodo returned to the dance floor too, but now found himself making some errors. He took in stride the good-natured ribbing about "beginners’ nerves," but did not get another opportunity to dance or speak with Hyacinth for the remainder of the ball.

* * *

As the moon sank behind the Buck Hill, Saradoc gently lifted a sleeping Merry from the damp grass.

Dance notes:

The ländler was a forerunner of the Viennese waltz, the dance that swept across Europe in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, transforming social dance forever after. I used the term ländler in this story because it sounds less recognizably modern than waltz, and was in any case the older form of the dance. Here is a first-hand account of a village dance in the latter part of the eighteenth century:

The men dancers held up the dresses of their partners very high so that they should not trail and be stepped on, wrapped themselves both tightly in the covering, bringing their bodies as closely together as possible, and thus whirling about went on in the most indecent positions....
As they waltzed around on the darker side of the room, the kissing and the hugging became still bolder. It is the custom of the country, I know, and not as bad as it looks, but I can quite understand why the waltz has been banned in parts of Swabia and Switzerland.

The reaction of the hobbits is the reaction the waltz first met with wherever it appeared, particularly among the very straitlaced British. The close contact with one’s partner contrasted sharply with the more stately minuets and quadrilles popular among the aristocracy, or even with the livelier English country dancing such as the Sir Roger de Coverly (known in America as the Virginia Reel)—in which one kept at arm’s length distance from one’s partner.

In 1816, this scathing editorial appeared in The Times of London:

We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz was introduced (we believe for the first time) at the English court on Friday last ... it is quite sufficient to cast one's eyes on the voluptuous intertwining of the limbs and close compressure on the bodies in their dance, to see that it is indeed far removed from the modest reserve which has hitherto been considered distinctive of English females. So long as this obscene display was confined to prostitutes and adulteresses, we did not think it deserving of notice; but now that it is attempted to be forced on the respectable classes of society by the civil examples of their superiors, we feel it a duty to warn every parent against exposing his daughter to so fatal a contagion.

One last thing, then I’ll shut up (on this subject, at least)…the Viennese waltz should not be confused with the sedate, Arthur Miller-type imitation one sees at weddings. The real thing is a difficult and exhilarating dance in which you must spin 360 degrees on every three-count measure, while at the same time circling the room with all the other dancers. That’s why waltz music is fairly slow…the dance would be impossible otherwise. Just stand in the middle of the room and try this once or twice, and you’ll see what I mean!

Music notes:

Except for a small alteration in the last line (changing Richmond to Buckland), the Buckland Ball’s opening song is from "A Song made by Mr. Tho. D’Urfey upon a new Country Dance at Richmond, called, Mr. Lane’s Magot" in John Playford’s The English Dancing Master, London, 1651.

The Merry Maiden lyrics adapted from Dick Deadeye’s duet with Captain Corcoran in H.M.S. Pinafore by Gilbert & Sullivan.

"The Merry Widow Waltz" is from the 1905 operetta The Merry Widow by Hungarian composer Franz Lehàr. Some waltzes are stately, some sprightly, some triumphal or "happily ever after." Many are more famous but to me, there is no waltz lovelier than this one. You can listen to "The Merry Widow Waltz" at this link:

http://stage.vitaminic.com/main/popular_classical_quartet/all_tracks/,2