TO MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

They nearly strike me dumb,

And I tremble when they come

Pit-a-pat:

This palpitation means

That these boots are Geraldine's —

Think of that!

Oh, where did hunter win

So delicate a skin

For her feet?

You lucky little kid,

You perished, so you did,

For my sweet.

The faery stitching gleams

On the toes, and in the seams,

And reveals

That Pixies were the wags

Who tipped these funny tags,

And these heels.

What soles! so little worn!

Had Crusoe — soul forlorn!—

Chanced to view

One printed near the tide,

How hard he would have tried

For the two!

For Gerry's debonair,

And innocent, and fair

As a rose:

She's an angel in a frock,

With a fascinating cock

To her nose.

Those simpletons who squeeze

Their extremities to please

Mandarins,

Would positively flinch

From venturing to pinch

Geraldine's.

Cinderella's lefts and rights

To Geraldine's were frights:

And, in truth,

The damsel, deftly shod,

Has dutifully trod

From her youth.

The mansion — ay, and more,

The cottage of the poor,

Where there's grief,

Or sickness, are her choice —

And the music of her voice

Brings relief.

Come, Gerry, since it suits

Such a pretty Puss-in-Boots

These to don,

Set your little hand awhile

On my shoulder, dear, and I'll

Put them on.