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GRANDMOTHER’S DANCING SHOES
[People’s Press, 23 October 1900]
Stowed here, with old treasures and dresses,
Queer bonnets, gay ribbons and lace
The rose that once decked her dark tresses,
The picture of her winsome face,
I found-queerly fashioned with buckle and bow,
With jewels to sparkle and glance-
The quaint little shoes that grandmother wore,
The night that she learned to dance.
Oh! Gay, was my Grandmother, surely,
That night, as her feet flew along
In time to the orchestra music,
Her heart keeping time with a song;
Oh! Trim was her form and light were her feet,
And proud of her shoes was she,
The vain little girl, dancing at her first ball,
-Grandmother that was to be.
Like stars were her eyes in the lamplight,
And full were her lips, rich and red,
She looked like a bird in the sunshine,
As through the gay measures she sped;
I wish I could see her, as that night she looked,
Some power would be the gift to me give,
For the old people say that when she was young,
My Grandmother looked like me.
Quaint shoes, I will aye keep them sacred,
My grandmother’s feet are but dust,
No music will rouse them to dancing.
She sleeps the sweet sleep of the just,
But still-as a vision-I see gliding by,
A figure in gossamer dressed,
It fades-I recall that with slim feet unshod,
My grandmother lies at rest.
GRANDMOTHER’S DANCING SHOES
[People’s Press, 23 October 1900]
Stowed here, with old treasures and dresses,
Queer bonnets, gay ribbons and lace
The rose that once decked her dark tresses,
The picture of her winsome face,
I found-queerly fashioned with buckle and bow,
With jewels to sparkle and glance-
The quaint little shoes that grandmother wore,
The night that she learned to dance.
Oh! Gay, was my Grandmother, surely,
That night, as her feet flew along
In time to the orchestra music,
Her heart keeping time with a song;
Oh! Trim was her form and light were her feet,
And proud of her shoes was she,
The vain little girl, dancing at her first ball,
-Grandmother that was to be.
Like stars were her eyes in the lamplight,
And full were her lips, rich and red,
She looked like a bird in the sunshine,
As through the gay measures she sped;
I wish I could see her, as that night she looked,
Some power would be the gift to me give,
For the old people say that when she was young,
My Grandmother looked like me.
Quaint shoes, I will aye keep them sacred,
My grandmother’s feet are but dust,
No music will rouse them to dancing.
She sleeps the sweet sleep of the just,
But still-as a vision-I see gliding by,
A figure in gossamer dressed,
It fades-I recall that with slim feet unshod,
My grandmother lies at rest.
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