Barefoot Kings

O Mother, say, — it is almost May, — , 
Can I put away my shoes to-day?
And run barefooted with Puss and Tray?
The grass is sunny, and clean, and green;
The air is warm, and, all between
Its silky banks, like a scarf unrolled,
The bed of the brook is a crinkle of gold;
And it laughs and winks, and I know it thinks,
"Come in if you dare! it isn't cold."

The ducks are dabbling in the pond, 
Dabbling and gabbling, foolish, fond, 
With their thin, flat voices, "Quack, quack, quack! "
As they launch their fleet of ducklings black, 
That steer away to an unknown port, 
Happy as kits with their new-born sport.
They have no fear for their naked pads;
No brogue, nor gaiter, nor slipper adds its clumsy weight
To their graceful sailing and waddling gait.

Ha, ha! Hurrah! there Billy McCree, 
With a patch on his seat and a hole in his knee.
With his great bare feet of a pinky brown,
Comes spattering down with a saucy glee,
Through puddle and brook, and the sunniest nook,
Where greenest grows the grass. And, look!
How he combs the violets with his toes,
Their stems between them, their heads in rows,
Plucked off, adorning his feet as he goes!

Ah, mother, if we were poor as he,
I’d have no shoes; and what fun it would be!
Then I could paddle with Billy McCree,
And soothe my fingers and suit my eyes
     With those dear mud pies,
And printe the dust with dotted rows
     Of my round red toes,
And feel the new grass tickle my feet;
   And I’d splash the water and make it run
Over my instep smooth and fleet,
     As over a polished stone,
With all its swirls and glittering whirls,
   Soft and clinging, and warm ad sweet,
As the ripple of Bessie’s golden curls
     When they fall like this
Across my cheek with her good-night kiss.

Now, there goes Johnny, the farmer’s boy,
With Buck and Bright, and a “Gee-a-whoa!”
Turning the soil with his curvéd steel,
Like a little wave from a shallop’s keel;
And he walks in the furrow, how glad to feel
The earth so mellow, and fresh, and sweet,
Fall crumbling back on his naked feet!
O. now, were I just a farmer’s lad,
Shoeless, and hardy, and roughly clad,
I’d dance in the furrow, and mine and burrow
In earth like a mole, and find such thorough
     Delight in my hole.
The king might have my shoes for a penny,
     And I, without any,
Be twice as jolly as “old King Cole.”