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.
ALBURY, June 29, 1864.