The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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SORROWS FOR A FAVOURITE TABBY CAT WHO LEFT THIS SCENE OF TROUBLES FRIDAY NIGHT NOV. 26 1819 |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
SORROWS FOR A FAVOURITE TABBY CAT WHO LEFT THIS SCENE OF TROUBLES FRIDAY NIGHT NOV. 26 1819
Let brutish hearts as hard as stones
Mock the weak muses tender moans
As now she wails oer tittys bones
Wi anguish deep
Doubtless our parents dying groans
Theyd little weep
Mock the weak muses tender moans
As now she wails oer tittys bones
Wi anguish deep
Doubtless our parents dying groans
Theyd little weep
226
Ah pity thines a tender heart
Thy sigh soon heaves thy tears will start
& thou hast gen the muse her part
Salt tears to shed
To mourn & sigh wi sorrows smart
For pussey dead
Thy sigh soon heaves thy tears will start
& thou hast gen the muse her part
Salt tears to shed
To mourn & sigh wi sorrows smart
For pussey dead
Ah mourning memory neath thy pall
Thou utterst many a piercing call
Pickling in vinegars sour gall
Ways that are fled
The ways the feats the tricks & all
Of pussey dead
Thou utterst many a piercing call
Pickling in vinegars sour gall
Ways that are fled
The ways the feats the tricks & all
Of pussey dead
Thou tellst of all the gamsome plays
That markt her happy kitten days
—Ah I did love her funney ways
On the sand floor
But now sad sorrow dampts my lays
Pusseys no more
That markt her happy kitten days
—Ah I did love her funney ways
On the sand floor
But now sad sorrow dampts my lays
Pusseys no more
Thou paints her flirting round & round
As she was wont wi things shed found
Chasing the spider oer the ground
Straws pushing on
Thou paints em on a bosom wound
Poor pusseys gone
As she was wont wi things shed found
Chasing the spider oer the ground
Straws pushing on
Thou paints em on a bosom wound
Poor pusseys gone
Ah mice rejoice yeve lost yr foe
Who watchd yr scheming robberies so
That while she livd twant yours to know
A crumb of bread
Tis yours to triumph mines the woe
Poor pusseys dead
Who watchd yr scheming robberies so
That while she livd twant yours to know
A crumb of bread
Tis yours to triumph mines the woe
Poor pusseys dead
227
While pussey livd yed empty maws
No sooner peept ye out your nose
But ye were instant in her claws
Wi squeakings dread
Yere now set free from tyrant laws
Poor pusseys dead
No sooner peept ye out your nose
But ye were instant in her claws
Wi squeakings dread
Yere now set free from tyrant laws
Poor pusseys dead
Left freely here to prowl at night
To wake me like some squeaking sprite
Theres nothing now but ye dare bite
Your terrors fled
Put up I mun wi all yer spite
Poor pusseys dead
To wake me like some squeaking sprite
Theres nothing now but ye dare bite
Your terrors fled
Put up I mun wi all yer spite
Poor pusseys dead
But if ‘wide nicks’ ye mean to run
To scoop my barley crust i' fun
& drop yr tails ont when yeve done
Beware yr heads
Or yell find what yed wish to shun
Tho pusseys dead
To scoop my barley crust i' fun
& drop yr tails ont when yeve done
Beware yr heads
Or yell find what yed wish to shun
Tho pusseys dead
As sures yer born wi' in yer clo'hs
If puss cant nab ye by the nose
Ill find a scheme yed ill suppose
To save my bread
Ye maynt too much infringe the laws
If pusseys dead
If puss cant nab ye by the nose
Ill find a scheme yed ill suppose
To save my bread
Ye maynt too much infringe the laws
If pusseys dead
So dont ye drive yer jokes too far
Ye cubboard plunderers as ye are
For while Ive six pence left to spare
& traps are had
Ill make among ye dreadfull war
Tho pusseys dead—
Ye cubboard plunderers as ye are
For while Ive six pence left to spare
& traps are had
Ill make among ye dreadfull war
Tho pusseys dead—
228
& now poor puss thoust lost thy breath
& desent laid the moulds beneath
As ere a cat coud wish in death
For their last bed
This to thy memory I bequeath
Poor pussey dead
& desent laid the moulds beneath
As ere a cat coud wish in death
For their last bed
This to thy memory I bequeath
Poor pussey dead
| The early poems of John Clare | |