As on my crimson rug I lie,
What fairer sight for painter's eye?
Short are my legs, yet mark my pace
Whene'er I cats or postmen chase!
In human language if I fail,
What so expressive as my tail?
See how it wags, as if to say,
"Dear mistress, a glad wedding day!"
Though bounded is my being's range,
And knows no world beyond The Grange—