The Little Hare
Beyond the palings of the park
A Hare had made her form,
Beneath a drooping fern, that made
A shelter snug and warm.
She slept until the daylight came,
And all thinks were awake,
And then the Hare, with noiseless steps,
Crept softly from the brake.
She stroked her whiskers with her paws,
Looked timidly around
With open eyes and ears erect
That caught the smallest sound.
The Field-Mouse rustled in the grass,
The Squirrel in the trees,
But Puss was not at all afraid
Of common sounds like these.
She frisked and gambolled with delight,
And cropped a leaf or two
Of clover and of tender grass,
That glistened in the dew.
What was it, then, that made her start,
And run away so fast?
She heard the distant sound of hounds,
She heard the huntsman's blast.
Tally-ho!-hoy tally-ho!
The hounds are in full cry;
Ehew! ehew—in scarlet coats
The men are sweeping by.
So off she set with a spring and a bound,
Over the meadows and open ground,
Faster than hunter and faster than hound
And on—and on—till she lost the sound,
And away went the little Hare.
Aunt Effie
Peter and the Hare
Thoughtless little Peter,
With his little gun,
Went out by the woodside
For a little fun;
Saw a happy little hare,
Who on clover fed—
With his little gun took aim
And shot him in the head.
Thoughtful little Peter,
Sad for what he'd done,
Sat down on a stump, and there
By it laid his gun;
Wished that he could bring to life
That little hare so still;
"Never more," said he, "will I
A harmless creature kill."
Epitaph on a Hare
Here lies whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo.
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And when he could he would bite.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippin's russet peel;
And when his juicy salads fail'd,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing himself around.
His frisking was at evening hours
For then he'd lost his fear!
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now, beneath this walnut shade,
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid
Till gentler puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save;
And partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
William Cowper
Punch's Appeal for the Hunted Hare
All on the bare and bleak hillside,
One night this merry Christmastide,
A shivering hunted hare did hide;
Poor Pussy!
Though we had hunted puss all day,
The wind had blown her scent away,
And balked the dogs, so there she lay,
Poor Pussy!
There to the earth she humbly crept,
There brooding o'er her lot she wept,
There, on her empty stomach she slept.
Poor Pussy!
And there, while frozen fell the dew,
She dreamt an ugly dream or two,
As starved, wet folk are apt to do,
Did Pussy!
Loud hungry hounds of subtle ken,
And thundering steeds, and hard-eyed men,
Are fast on Pussy's trail again,
Poor Pussy!
Onwards she strains, on, as they tear
Foremost amongst the foremost there,
Are ruthless women's faces fair;
Poor Pussy!
One moment's check, to left, to right,
In vain she spends her little might,
Some yokel's eyes have marked her flight,
Poor Pussy!
What use her fine small wits to rack!
Closer, and faster on her track
Hurries the hydra-headed pack,
Lost Pussy!
"For pity's sake, kind huntsman, stop!
Call off the dogs before I drop,
And kill me with your heavy crop."
Shrieks Pussy!
With shuddering start and stifled scream,
She wakes!—She finds it all a dream;
How kind the cold, cold earth doth seem
To Pussy!

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Page 180—Rat Land

The Pied Piper of Hamelin
 —or—
The Vanished Children
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side.
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin was a pity.
Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking,
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
"'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;
And as for our Corporation—shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!