  He who holds friendship with a knave, Will reputation hardly save; And thus upon our choice of friends Our good or evil name depends. A wrinkled hag—of naughty fame— Sat hovering o'er a flickering flame, Propped with both hands upon her knees She shook with palsy and the breeze. She had perhaps seen fourscore years, And backwards said her daily prayers; Her troop of cats with hunger mewed,— Tabbies and toms, a numerous brood. Teased with their murmuring, out she flew In angry passion: "Hence, ye crew!— What made me take to keeping cats? Ye are as bad as bawling brats: With brats I might perhaps have grown rich; I never had been thought a known witch. Boys pester me, and strive to awe— Across my path they place a straw; They nail the horse-shoe, hide the broom-stick, Put pins, and every sort of trick." "Dame," said a tabby, "cease your prate, Enough to break a pussy's pate. What is our lot beneath your roof? Within, starvation; out, reproof: Elsewhere we had been honest mousers, And slept, by, fireside carousers. Here we are imps who serve a hag, And yonder broom-stick's thought your nag; Boys hunt us with a doom condign, To take one life out of our nine." |
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