On A Cat, That Was Killed As She Was Attempting To Rob A Dove-House

by

Ibn Alalaf Al-Naharwany



Poor Puss is gone!—’tis Fate's decree—

Yet I must still her loss deplore;

For dearer than a child was she,

And never shall I behold her more.


With many a sad presaging tear,

This morning I saw her steal away,

While she went on without any fears,

Except that she should miss her prey.


I saw her to the dove-house climb,

With cautious feet and slow she stepped,

Resolved to balance loss of time

By eating faster than she crept.


Her subtle foes were watching her,

And marked her course, with fury fraught;

And while she hoped the birds to catch,

An arrow's point the huntress caught.


In fancy she had got them all,

And drunk their blood and sucked their breath;

Alas! she only got a fall,

And only drank the draught of death.


Why, why was pigeon meat so nice,

That thoughtless cats should love it thus?

Had you but lived on rats and mice,

You would be living now, poor Puss!


Cursed be the taste, however refined,

That prompts us for such joys to wish;

And cursed the dainty where we find

Destruction lurking in the dish!



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