MY OLD GRAY CAT AND I.

THE wind blows shrill and the night is chill And the black clouds hide the moon, And the raindrops splash on the window sash In a lazy, lonesome tune; But the fire burns low, with a rosy glow, As the sifting cinders die, And we sit and dream in its cosy gleam,— My old gray cat and I. The smoke-wreaths curl from my pipe and whirl Aloft in the dusky gloom, And the buzzing burr of the cat’s soft purr Hums low through the raftered room; And the raging rout of the storm, without, May scream in the chimney, high, We’re blithe to-night, by the fire’s warm light,— My old gray cat and I. The squire may stand by his hearth so grand, In his palace rich and old, But his haughty breast has a deep unrest, For he fears for his bonds and gold; No wealth have we, so our hearts are free, And our cot is warm and dry, We feel no care, in our easy chair,— My old gray cat and I. From its well-worn hook, in the chimney’s nook, I take my fiddle down, And snugly in, ’neath my grizzled chin, I cuddle its breast of brown; And the strain that rings from the crooning strings, Bids grief to the four winds fly, While the sweet notes swell, we know so well,— My old gray cat and I. For Puss, old chum, whate’er may come, You’re still a comrade true, Through shine or rain you ne’er complain, So here’s good health to you: The best of luck, my ancient buck, While old Time hurries by; Till this world ends we’ll be fast friends,— My old gray cat and I.