MY lady's ready for the ball;

But she's lost her golden slippers,

And the servants scurry all,

From the pantry, from the hall,

Brooms in hand, and spoons and dippers.

Ah, my lady's golden slippers!

Footman, cook, and housemaid—run!

Hunt ye nimbly, every one!

Round they whirl, the lightsome trippers,

And the music has begun:

Ah, my lady's golden slippers!

Hurry, hurry; for she yet,

If ye find her golden slippers,

May lead off the minuet

With the Prince of Popinet,

Foremost of the stately steppers.

Ah, my lady's golden slippers!

Guess ye where they found them all!

Dancing bravely at the ball,

Original

Of themselves, these frisky slippers,

Wheeling at the fiddle's call—

Ah, my lady's golden slippers!