Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE LAST DYING SPEECH AND CONFESSION OF POOR PUSS, by ANN TAYLOR Poet's Biography First Line: Kind masters and misses, whoever you be Last Line: She stopped, gave a sigh, and a struggle, and died! Subject(s): Animals; Cats; Death - Animals | ||||||||
"KIND masters and misses, whoever you be, Do stop for a moment and pity poor me! While here on my death-bed I try to relate My many misfortunes and miseries great. My dear Mother Tabby I've often heard say, That I have been a very fine cat in my day; But the sorrows in which my whole life has been passed Have spoiled all my beauty, and killed me at last. Poor thoughtless young thing! if I recollect right, I was kittened in March, on a clear frosty night; And before I could see, or was half a week old, I nearly had perished, the barn was so cold. But this chilly spring I got pretty well over, And moused in the hay-loft, or played in the clover, Or till I was weary, which seldom occurred, Ran after my tail, which I took for a bird. But, ah! my poor tail, and my pretty sleek ears! The farmer's boy cut them all off with his shears: How little I thought, when I licked them so clean, I should be such a figure, not fit to be seen! Some time after this, when the places were healed, As I lay in the sun, sound asleep in the field, Miss Fanny crept slyly, and gripping me fast, Declared she had caught the sweet creature at last. Ah me! how I struggled my freedom to gain, But, alas! all my kicking and struggles were vain, For she held me so tight in her pinafore tied, That before she got home I had like to have died. From this dreadful morning my sorrows arose! Wherever I went I was followed with blows: Some kicked me for nothing while quietly sleeping, Or flogged me for daring the pantry to peep in. And then the great dog! I shall never forget him; How many a time my young master would set him, And while I stood terrified, all of a quake, Cry, 'Hey, cat!' and 'Seize her, boy! give her a shake!' Sometimes, when so hungry I could not forbear Just taking a scrap, that I thought they could spare, Oh! what have I suffered with beating and banging, Or starved for a fortnight, or threatened with hanging. But kicking, and beating, and starving, and that, I have borne with the spirit becoming a cat: There was but one thing which I could not sustain, So great was my sorrow, so hopeless my pain: One morning, laid safe in a warm little bed, That down in the stable I'd carefully spread, Three sweet little kittens as ever you saw, I hid, as I thought, in some trusses of straw. I was never so happy, I think, nor so proud, I mewed to my kittens, and purred out aloud, And thought with delight of the merry carousing We'd have, when I first took them with me a-mousing. But how shall I tell you the sorrowful ditty? I'm sure it would melt even Growler to pity; For the very next morning my darlings I found Lying dead by the horse-pond, all mangled and drown Poor darlings, I dragged them along to the stable, And did all to warm them a mother was able; But, alas! all my licking and mewing were vain, And I thought I should never be happy again. However, time gave me a little relief, And mousing diverted the thoughts of my grief; And at last I began to be gay and content, Till one dreadful night I sincerely repent. Miss Fanny was fond of a little canary, That tempted me more than mouse, pantry, or dairy; So, not having eaten a morsel all day, I flew to the bird-cage, and tore it away. Now tell me, my friends, was the like ever heard, That a cat should be killed for just catching a bird! And I'm sure not the slightest suspicion I had, But that catching a mouse was exactly as bad. Indeed I can say, with my paw on my heart, I would not have acted a mischievous part; But, as dear Mother Tabby was often repeating, I thought birds and mice were on purpose for eating. Be this as it may, when my supper was o'er, And but a few feathers were left on the floor, Came Fannyand scolding, and fighting, and crying, She gave me those bruises, of which I am dying. But I feel that my breathing grows shorter apace, And cold clammy sweats trickle down from my face: I forgive little Fanny this bruise on my side" She stopped, gave a sigh, and a struggle, and died! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITTLE DOG'S DAY by RUPERT BROOKE THE GRAVE OF THE KITCHEN MOUSE by PHILIP LEVINE TO A WREN ON CALVARY by LARRY LEVIS TARANTULAS ON THE LIFEBUOY by THOMAS LUX |
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