Shapes of Clay

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."