Membah de time he put ’em on,
      Dese little boots;
  Riz an’ called fu’ ’em by dawn,
      Dese little boots;
  Den he tromped de livelong day,
  Laffin’ in his happy way,
  Evaht’ing he had to say,
      “My little boots!”

  Kickin’ de san’ de whole day long,
      Dem little boots;
  Good de cobblah made ’em strong,
     Dem little boots! 
  Rocks was fu’ dat baby’s use,
  I’on had to stan’ abuse
  W’en you tu’ned dese champeens loose,
      Dese little boots!

  Ust to make de ol’ cat cry,
      Dese little boots;
  Den you walked it mighty high,
      Proud little boots! 
  Ahms akimbo, stan’in’ wide,
  Eyes a-sayin’ “Dis is pride!”
  Den de manny-baby stride! 
      You little boots.

  Somehow, you don’ seem so gay,
      Po’ little boots,
  Sence yo’ ownah went erway,
      Po’ little boots! 
  Yo’ bright tops don’ look so red,
  Dese brass tips is dull an’ dead;
  “Goo’-by,” whut de baby said;
      Deah little boots!

  Ain’t you kin’ o’ sad yo’se’f,
      You little boots? 
  Dis is all his mammy ‘s lef’,
      Two little boots. 
  Sence huh baby gone an’ died. 
  Heav’n itse’f hit seem to hide
  Des a little bit inside
      Two little boots.

TO THE ROAD

  Cool is the wind, for the summer is waning,
      Who ’s for the road? 
  Sun-flecked and soft, where the dead leaves are raining,
      Who ’s for the road? 
  Knapsack and alpenstock press hand and shoulder,
  Prick of the brier and roll of the boulder;
  This be your lot till the season grow older;
      Who ’s for the road?

  Up and away in the hush of the morning,
      Who ’s for the road? 
  Vagabond he, all conventions a-scorning,
      Who ’s for the road? 
  Music of warblers so merrily singing,
  Draughts from the rill from the roadside up-springing,
  Nectar of grapes from the vines lowly swinging,
      These on the road.

  Now every house is a hut or a hovel,
      Come to the road: 
  Mankind and moles in the dark love to grovel,
      But to the road. 
  Throw off the loads that are bending you double;
  Love is for life, only labor is trouble;
  Truce to the town, whose best gift is a bubble: 
      Come to the road!

A SPRING WOOING

  Come on walkin’ wid me, Lucy; ‘t ain’t no time to mope erroun’
    Wen de sunshine ‘s shoutin’ glory in de sky,
  An’ de little Johnny-Jump-Ups ‘s jes’ a-springin’ f’om de groun’,
    Den a-lookin’ roun’ to ax each othah w’y. 
  Don’ you hyeah dem cows a-mooin’?  Dat ’s dey howdy to de spring;
    Ain’ dey lookin’ most oncommon satisfied? 
  Hit ‘s enough to mek a body want to spread dey mouf an’ sing
    Jes’ to see de critters all so spa’klin’-eyed.