Sorrow For A Favourite Tabby Cat, Who Left This Scene Of Troubles, Friday Night, Nov. 26, 1819.

A poem by John Clare

Let brutish hearts, as hard as stones,
Mock The weak Muse's tender moans,
As now she wails o'er Titty's bones
With anguish deep;
Doubtless o'er parent's dying groans
They'd little weep.

Ah, Pity! thine's a tender heart,
Thy sigh soon heaves, thy tears soon start;
And thou hast given the muse her part
Salt tears to shed,
To mourn and sigh with sorrow's smart;
For pussy's dead.

Ah, mourning Memory! 'neath thy pall
Thou utterest many a piercing call,
Pickling in vinegar's sour gall
Ways that are fled--
The way, the feats, the tricks, and all,
Of pussy dead.

Thou tell'st of all the gamesome plays
That mark'd her happy kitten-days:
-Ah, I did love her funny way
On the sand floor;
But now sad sorrow damps my lays:
Pussy's no more.

Thou paint'st her flirting round and round,
As she was wont, with things she'd found,
Chasing the spider o'er the ground,
Straws pushing on;
Thou paint'st them on a bosom-wound:
Poor pussy's gone.

Ah mice, rejoice! ye've lost your foe,
Who watch'd your scheming robberies so,
That while she liv'd twa'n't yours to know
A crumb of bread;
'Tis yours to triumph, mine's the woe,
Now pussy's dead.

While pussy liv'd ye'd empty maws;
No sooner peep'd ye out your nose,
But ye were instant in her claws
With squeakings dread:
Ye're now set free from tyrant-laws;
Poor pussy's dead.

Left freely here to prowl at night,
To wake me, like some squeaking sprite,
There's nothing now but ye dare bite,
Your terror's fled;
Put up I must with all your spite,
Poor pussy's dead.

But if "wide nicks" ye mean to run,
To scoop my barley crust in fun,
And drop your tails on't when ye've done,
Beware your head;
Or ye'll find what ye'd wish to shun,
Though pussy's dead.

As sure's you're born within your clothes,
If puss can't nab ye by the nose,
I'll find a scheme ye'd ill-suppose
To save my bread;
Ye may'nt too much infringe the laws,
If pussy's dead.

So don't ye drive your jokes too far,
Ye cupboard-plunderers as ye are;
For while I've sixpence left to spare,
And traps are had,
I'll make among ye dreadful war,
Though pussy's dead.

And now, poor puss! thou'st lost thy breath,
And decent laid the molds beneath,
As ere a cat could wish in death
For her last bed;
This to thy memory I bequeath,
Poor pussy dead!