For the Boot, tho' its lustre be dimm'd, shall assume
New comeliness after a while;
But no art may restore its original bloom,
When once it hath fled, to the Tile.
I clomb to my perch, and the horses (a bay
And a brown) trotted off with a clatter;
The driver look'd round in his humorous way,
And said huskily, "Who is your hatter?"
I was pleased that he'd noticed its shape and its shine;
And, as soon as we reached the "Old Druid,"