Revenge

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 woful 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.'