My Mistress’s Boots

She has dancing eyes and ruby lips
Delightful boots—and away she skips.

THEY nearly strike me dumb,—

I tremble when they come

Pit-a-pat:

This palpitation means

These boots are Geraldine’s—

Think of that!

O where did hunter win

So delicate a skin

For her feet?

You lucky little kid,

You perish’d, so you did,

For my sweet.

The faery stitching gleams

On the sides, and in the seams,

As it shows

The Pixies were the wags

Who tipt these funny tags,

And these toes.

What soles to charm an elf!

Had Crusoe, sick of self,

Chanced to view

One printed near the tide,

O, 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.

The 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 I trow,

The damsel, deftly shod,

Has dutifully trod

Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits

Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)

These to don,

Set this dainty hand awhile

On my shoulder, dear, and I’ll

Put them on.

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