Page:Poems Cook.djvu/266

Most truly then my tiny toes
Walk'd in a path "couleur de rose,"
As, marching forth, I sought the street,
My head fill'd, choke-full, with my feet.
Proud and happy thing was I,
 Amid the world's enchanted views;
When hair and sash-ends used to fly,
 And I wore red shoes.

How they used to flit and shine
O'er the chalky zig-zag line,
As with Taglioni tread
I moved where "Hop Scotch" maps were spread!
How rich their contrast as they plied
In kicks on Pincher's jetty side;
Till "tantrums" made it hard to trace
Which were the reddest, shoes or face!
Oh, Pincher! Pincher! it was you
That shared the scolding and "to-do,"
When I had join'd their strings to deck
Your dear, old apoplectic neck.
Sock and buskin—out upon them!
Let the crook-back Richards don them:
I remember wearing socks
That gave severer tragic shocks;
That won a fame by no means fickle—
 A fame I stood no chance to lose;
When I acted "Little Pickle"
 Stamping in red shoes.

Mentors dubb'd me "stupid child,"
Idle, careless, rude, and wild;
As they labour'd to instil
Mystic hornpipe and quadrille.
How I used to fling and flout
Through "Ladies' Chain" to "put them out;"

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