(Revised,
see printed copy)
The
day of weary toils begins,
The clatter of machines;
The
whistles scream, the flying wheels,
Bespeak of busy scenes.
The
hours slowly drag along,
And soon my feet refuse
To
lend support, unless I get
Into my old shop shoes.
Those
old shop shoes! they’re full of holes,
And shape they do not claim;
And
if they were not tied with strings,
They wouldn’t hold their name.
But
what care I for size and shape?
Relief is what I choose;
And
“founts of youth”, I ween are they,
Those battered old shop shoes.
And
as I draw them slowly on,
O’er burning toe and heel,
Quick
streaks of comfort up my legs
And o’er my body steal.
Ah!
patent leathers if you will,
With all their gaws and gews;
But
if you want a lease of life, to
love the world
Put on your old shop shoes.
June
27, ‘94
Pub.
in Boston Courier
Feb. 24, 1895
(‘gaws and gews’ – ‘gewgaw’ - something showy but useless and of
little value; trinket.
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