THE WALKING ENGLISHWOMAN ON THE ALPS.
You who look, at home, so charming—
Angel, goddess, nothing less—
Do you know you're quite alarming
In that dress?
Such a garb should be forbidden;
Where's the grace an artist loves?
Think of dainty fingers hidden
In those gloves!
Gloves! A housemaid would not wear them,
Shapeless, brown and rough as sacks,
Thick! And yet you often tear them
With that axe!
Worst of all, unblacked, unshiny—
Greet them with derisive boots—
Clumsy, huge! For feet so tiny!
Oh, those boots!