Old Dame And Cats.

He who holds friendship with a knave,             Will reputation hardly save;             And thus upon our choice of friends             Our good or evil name depends.             A wrinkled hag - of naughty fame -             Sat hovering o'er a flickering flame,             Propped with both hands upon her knees             She shook with palsy and the breeze.             She had perhaps seen fourscore years,             And backwards said her daily prayers;             Her troop of cats with hunger mewed, -             Tabbies and toms, a numerous brood.             Teased with their murmuring, out she flew             In angry passion: "Hence, ye crew! -             What made me take to keeping cats?             Ye are as bad as bawling brats:             With brats I might perhaps have grown rich;             I never had been thought a known witch.             Boys pester me, and strive to awe -             Across my path they place a straw;             They nail the horse-shoe, hide the broom-stick,             Put pins, and every sort of trick."             "Dame," said a tabby, "cease your prate,             Enough to break a pussy's pate.             What is our lot beneath your roof?             Within, starvation; out, reproof:             Elsewhere we had been honest mousers,             And slept, by, fireside carousers.             Here we are imps who serve a hag,             And yonder broom-stick's thought your nag;             Boys hunt us with a doom condign,             To take one life out of our nine."