SOUTHEY’S CATS WRITE THEIR MASTER.

Dear Master: Let our boldness not offend, If a few lines of duteous love we send; Nor wonder that we deal in rhyme, for long We’ve been familiar with the founts of song. Nine thorougher tabbies you could rarely find Than those who laurels round your temples bind; For how with less than nine lives to their share Could they have lived so long on poet’s fare? Athens surnamed them from their mousing powers, And Rome from that harmonious mu of ours, In which the letter u (as we will trouble you To say to Todd) should supersede e w. This by the way. We now proceed to tell That all within the bounds of home are well; All but your faithful cats, who only pine; The cause your conscience may too well divine. Ah! little do you know how swiftly fly The venomed darts of feline jealousy; How delicate a task to deal it is With a grimalkin’s sensibilities. When Titten’s tortoise fur you smoothed with bland And coaxing courtesies of lip and hand, We felt as if (poor Puss’ constant dread) Some schoolboy stroked us both from tail to head. Nor less we suffered while with sportive touch And purring voice you played with gray-backed Gutch. And then with eager step you left your seat To get a peep at Richard’s snow-white feet, Himself all black; we longed to stop his breath With something like his royal namesake’s death. If more such scenes our frenzied fancies see, Resolved we hang from yonder maple tree— And were not that a sad catastrophe! Oh! then return to your deserted lake, Dry eyes that weep, and comfort hearts that ache. Our mutual jealousies we both disown, Content to share rather than lose a throne. The parlor——Rumpel’s undisputed reign, Hurly’s——the rest of all your wide domain. Return, return, dear Bard, Restore the happy days that once have been; Resign yourself to Home, the Muse, and us. Scratched Rumpelstilzchen, Hurlyburlybuss.