He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unaltered,
I too, longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter’d.
I wore my brand new boots—and unrivalled their brightness,
They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness!
I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
And once again we met—and an old pal was near him,
He swore, a something low, but ’twas no use to fear him.
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept, as he deserved —to cells wretched and lonely: