It was a tragic little mouse

All bent on suicide

Because another little mouse

Refused to be his bride.

“Alas!” he squeaked, “I shall not wed!

My heart and paw she spurns;

I’ll hie me to the cat instead,

From whence no mouse returns!”

The playful cat met him half way,

Said she, “I feel for you,

You’re dying for a mouse, you say,

I’m dying for one, too!”

Now when Miss Mouse beheld his doom,

Struck with remorse, she cried,

“In death we’ll meet!—O cat! make room

For one more mouse inside.”

The playful cat was charmed; said she,

“I shall be, in a sense,

Your pussy catafalque!” Ah me!

It was her last offence!

Reader, take warning from this tale,

And shun the punster’s trick:

Those mice, for fear lest cats might fail,

Had eaten arsenic!

They paused just at the crossing’s brink.

Said she, “We must turn back, I think.”

She eyes the mud. He sees her shrink,

Yet does not falter,

But recollects with fatal tact

That cloak upon his arm—in fact,

Resolves to do the courtly act

Of good Sir Walter.

Why is it that she makes no sound,

Staring aghast as on the ground

He lays the cloak with bow profound?

Her utterance chokes her.

She stands as petrified, until,

Her voice regained, in accents chill

She gasps, “I’ll thank you if you will

Pick up my cloak, sir!”