Page:Wee wee songs for our little pets.djvu/178

TIBBY'S DEATH.

It now becomes us to relate
  The time of Tibby's death;
In eighteen hundred and twenty-eight
  She drew her latest breath.

Old age and slow disease conspired
  This faithful cat to slay,
And in the garden she expired,
  About the last of May.

Her's was a happy life indeed;
  So quiet and secure,
From all the persecutions freed
  That many cats endure.

Though duly fed with milk and bread,
  At morn and evening, too,
No man, or youth,—or child, in truth,
  A better mouser knew.

The closet door oft stood ajar,
  Each shelf with viands crown'd,
Yet not the worse for honest puss
  Were e'er the dishes found.

If Tib, a cat, such praise could gain
  For honest, faithful deed,
Oh, how much more should those attain
  Who think, and speak, and read.