The Cat And The Old Rat.

[1]      A story-writer of our sort      Historifies, in short,      Of one that may be reckon'd      A Rodilard the Second, - [2]      The Alexander of the cats,      The Attila,[3] the scourge of rats,      Whose fierce and whisker'd head      Among the latter spread,      A league around, its dread;      Who seem'd, indeed, determined      The world should be unvermined.      The planks with props more false than slim,      The tempting heaps of poison'd meal,      The traps of wire and traps of steel,      Were only play compared with him.      At length, so sadly were they scared.      The rats and mice no longer dared      To show their thievish faces      Outside their hiding-places,      Thus shunning all pursuit; whereat      Our crafty General Cat      Contrived to hang himself, as dead,      Beside the wall with downward head,      Resisting gravitation's laws      By clinging with his hinder claws      To some small bit of string.      The rats esteem'd the thing      A judgment for some naughty deed,      Some thievish snatch,      Or ugly scratch;      And thought their foe had got his meed      By being hung indeed.      With hope elated all      Of laughing at his funeral,      They thrust their noses out in air;      And now to show their heads they dare;      Now dodging back, now venturing more;      At last upon the larder's store      They fall to filching, as of yore.      A scanty feast enjoy'd these shallows;      Down dropp'd the hung one from his gallows,      And of the hindmost caught.      'Some other tricks to me are known,'      Said he, while tearing bone from bone,      'By long experience taught;      The point is settled, free from doubt,      That from your holes you shall come out.'      His threat as good as prophecy      Was proved by Mr. Mildandsly;      For, putting on a mealy robe,      He squatted in an open tub,      And held his purring and his breath; -      Out came the vermin to their death.      On this occasion, one old stager,      A rat as grey as any badger,      Who had in battle lost his tail,      Abstained from smelling at the meal;      And cried, far off, 'Ah! General Cat,      I much suspect a heap like that;      Your meal is not the thing, perhaps,      For one who knows somewhat of traps;      Should you a sack of meal become,      I'd let you be, and stay at home.'      Well said, I think, and prudently,      By one who knew distrust to be      The parent of security.