love makes the world go round

Kind masters and misses, whoever you be,
Do stop for a moment and pity poor me!
While here on my death-bed I try to relate
My many misfortunes and miseries great.
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My dear mother Tabby, I’ve often heard say,
That I have been a very fine cat in my day;
But the sorrows in which my whole life has been passed,
Have spoiled all my beauty, and killed me at last.
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Poor thoughtless young thing! If I recollect right,
I was kittened in March, on a clear frosty night;
And before I could see, or was half a week old,
I nearly had perished, the barn was so cold.
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But this chilly spring I got pretty well over,
And moused in the hay-loft, or played in the clover;
Or till I was weary, which seldom occurred,
Ran after my tail, which I took for a bird.
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But, ah! My poor tail, and my pretty sleek ears!
The farmer’s boy cut them all off with his shears.
How little I thought, when I licked them so clean,
I should be such a figure, not fir to be seen!
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Some time after this when the places were healed,
As I lay in the sun, sound asleep in the field,
Miss Fanny crept shyly, and griping me fast,
Declared she had caught the sweet creature at last.
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Ah me! How I struggled, my freedom to gain,
But alas! All my kicking and struggles were vain,
For she held me so tight in her pinafore tied,
That before she got home I had liked to have died.
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From this dreadful morning my sorrows arose:
Wherever I went I was followed with blows:
Some kicked me for nothing, while quietly sleeping,
Or flogged me for daring the pantry to peep in.
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And then the great dog! I shall never forget him;
How many a time my young master would set him,
And whilst I stood terrified, all of a quake,
Cry,”Hey cat!” and, “seize her, boy! Give her a shake!”
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Sometimes, when so hungry, I could not forbear
Just taking a scrap that I thought might be spare
Oh! What have I suffered with beating and banging,
Or starved for a fortnight, or threatened with hanging.
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But kicking and beating, and starving and that,
I have borne with a spirit becoming a cat:
There was but one thing which I could not sustain,
So great was my sorrow, so hopeless my pain.
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One morning, laid safe in a warm little bed,
That down in the stable I’d carefully spread,
Three sweet little kittens as you ever saw,
I hid, as I thought, in some trusses of straw.
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I was never so happy, I think, or so proud,
I mewed to my kittens, and purred out aloud,
And thought with delight of the merry carousing
We’d have, when I first took them out with me mousing.
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But how shall I tell you this sorrowful ditty?
I’m sure it would melt even Growler to pity;
For the very next morning my darlings I found,
Lying dead by the horse – pond, all mangled and drowned.
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Poor darlings! I dragg’d them along to the stable,
And did all to warm them a mother was able;
But alas! all my licking and mewing were vain,
And I thought I should ne’er have been happy again.
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However, time gave me a little relief,
And mousing diverted the thoughts of my grief,
And at last I began to be gay and contented,
Till one dreadful morning, forever repented.
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Miss Fanny was fond of a favourite sparrow,
And often I long’d for a taste of its marrow’
So not having eating a morsel all day,
I flew to the bird-cage and tore it away.
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Now tell me, kind friends, was the like ever heard,
That a catshould be killed just for catching a bird!
And I’m sure, not the slightest suspicion I had,
But that catching a mouse was exactly as bad.
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Indeed I can say with my paw on my heart,
I would not have acted a mischeivous part;
But, as dear mother Tabby was often repeating
I thought birds and mice were on purpose for eating.
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But this as is may, with the noise of its squeaking,
Miss Fanny came in, while my whiskers were reeking,
And on my poor back with the hot poker flying
She gave me those bruises of which I am dying.
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But I feel that my breathing grows shorter apace,
And cold clammy sweats trickle down from my face:
I forgive little Fanny this bruise on my side-
She stopp’d, gave a sigh, and a struggle, and died.
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Love Makes The World Go Round
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