BARON GRIMALKIN’S DEATH.

O’ER a low barn, the setting sun Had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, A dying tom-cat lay. One who had caught full many a mouse, By pantry, barn, and shelf, But now, by unrelenting Death, At last was caught himself. “They come around me here, and say My days of life are o’er! That I shall snoop in pans of milk, And scratch and fight no more. They come, and to my whiskers dare Tell me now, that I, The oldest tom-cat on the place! That I? y-o-w! y-o-w! must die. “And what is death? I’ve braved him oft, Before the poker’s thrust; I’ve fought full many a cat and dog, For many a bone and crust; I’ve met him, faced him, scorned him, When the fight was raging hot! If he comes here I’ll scratch his eyes, Defy and fear him not. “Ho! sound the signal from the barn, And raise a mighty din! Go round to every house and farm, And call each tom-cat in; Away, and do my bidding, now, My every order mind! Bring hither every rat and mouse That you can catch or find!” A hundred cats were busy then; A feast of rats was spread; And everything was done in haste As the old cat had said; While, through a crack, the rising moon Lit up the novel scene, And shone on poor old Thomas cat Of sad but gritty mien. Soon hurrying through the great barn door The neighboring pussies came; Some black, some white, some grizzly gray Some wild, and others tame. They gathered quickly round the feast, Each sitting firm and straight; While, at their head, the dying cat, With tail curled round him, sat. “Let every one be filled, my cats; Eat all you can, to-night! And then, when we have done our feast, We’ll have a glorious fight! Are ye all there, my Thomas cats; Mine eyes are waxing dim; Now, wash your faces, bristle up, And get in fighting trim. “Ye’re there, and yet I see ye not— Come, clinch together, now, And let me hear you scratch and fight; We’ll have a glorious row! I hear it faintly; louder yet! What clogs my breath, I say? Up, all, and scratch, and fight and yawl, And scare grim Death away!” Teeth bit with teeth, cat fought with cat, And rose a deafening yawl, And scared the horses in that barn, And made the cattle bawl! “Ho! cravens, do ye fear him? Slaves, traitors, have ye flown? Ho, tom-cats, have ye left me, To meet him here alone? “But I defy him! Let him come!” Down came his sharp, old claws; And rage and fury grimly clashed, Within his teeth and jaws; And with his staring, yellow eyes Protruding from his head, There, on a bunch of barley straw, Lay the old rascal, dead!