A spitcat sate on a garden gate
And a snapdog fared beneath;
Careless and free was his mien, and he
Held a fiddle-string in his teeth.
She marked his march, she wrought an arch
Of her back and blew up her tail;
And her eyes were green as ever were seen,
And she uttered a woeful wail.
The spitcat’s plaint was as follows: “It ain’t
That I am to music a foe;
For fiddle-strings bide in my own inside,
And I twang them soft and low.
“But that dog has trifled with art and rifled
A kitten of mine, ah me!
That catgut slim was marauded from him:
’Tis the string that men call E.”
Then she sounded high, in the key of Y,
A note that cracked the tombs;
And the missiles through the firmament flew
From adjacent sleeping-rooms.
As her gruesome yell from the gate-post fell
She followed it down to earth;
And that snapdog wears a placard that bears
The inscription: “Blind from birth.”