No. III.
“I’d be a Parody.”—BAILEY.
WE met—’twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—
I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;
He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unalter’d,
I too longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter’d.
I wore my bran new boots—and unrivall’d their brightness,
They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness!
I call’d, but no one came, and my stride had a tether;
Oh thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
And once again we met—and an old pal was near him,
He swore a something low—but ’twas no use to fear him;
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept—as he deserv’d—to cells wretched and lonely:
And there he will be tried—but I shall ne’er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;
The world may think me gay—heart and feet ache together,
Oh thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather.