We follow’d the corpse of this darling of ours,
They buried him under a grave of May flowers,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
O prudent wert thou, thus early in striving
To ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,—
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
Happy thou, that thus early thy danger was over;
Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,—
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
For many a year have I thought, child so cherish’d,
With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,—
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.
7. IMPERFECTION.
Nothing is perfect in this world of ours,
The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers;
Methinks the angels, who for our protection
Dwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection.
The tulip has no scent. The saying is:
Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz;
Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may be
Would have in time brought forth a thumping baby.
The haughty peacock has but ugly feet;
A woman may be witty and discreet,
And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary,
Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.
The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween,
Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’en
The marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus;
Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us).
In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes,
As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times;
Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis,
And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.