19 
THE RAT WITH A BONE COLLAR. 
Of the host of queer things my friend Buckland’s collected, 
If the queerest of all were by some one selected, 
It would certainly be the remarkable rat 
Who’s been ‘‘ poking his nose into this and to that.” 
Like the noted ‘‘ Sir Thomas” of glorious Tom Ingoldsby, 
Whose fair lady Jane grieved so little to single be, 
And who—(worthy old broad-rimmed-spectacled Squire), 
When riding his hobby, got drowned in the mire, 
And (sad to relate) became food for the fishes, 
For the eels were seen wriggling out of his breeches— 
Like Sir Thomas, I say, this four-legged thief, 
By his poking and prying at last came to grief. 
‘One night he was routing about in a dust-bin, 
Into which a tired servant-of-all-work had just been 
‘Throwing the scraps from the evening meal, 
When he came upon something he thought he would steal ; 
*Twas a slice from the joint the Parisians call ‘‘ jambon,” 
And just in the midst was a section of ham-bone. 
He devoured the meat, and then set to work 
To gnaw at this section of thigh-bone of pork. 
He thought the soft centre so juicy and nice, 
That he greedily ate his way through in a trice ; 
Popped his head through the ring whilst enjoying the marrow, 
But found, to his horror, the hole was so narrow 
That there wasn’t the ghost of a chance of removing it, 
For the set of his ears prevented his moving it, 
And that spite of his struggling and kicking ‘‘ like bricks,” 
He never could hope to get out of his fix. 
He began to reflect on his painful position, 
And to moralize o’er his unhappy condition. 
Said he—‘‘ I’ve been foolish, indeed, I must own, 
In supposing I merely had collared a bone ; 
For, now it’s too late, I unhappily see 
That a Tartar 1 caught—'twas the bone collared me. 
A rasher thing, surely, I never attempted, 
‘Than when by that rasher of ham I was tempted.” 
MORAL, 
Every tale has a moral—even a rat’s, 
So, young bachelors, listen, and take off your hats ; 
Don’t ‘‘bone” anyone’s collars ; I further advise you, 
If any young lady bewitchingly eyes you, 
Don’t fall deeply in love—it’s a serious thing 
To find yourself o’er head and ears in a ring. 
The Rat (loquitur). 
Mr. BuckLanD, your honour,—it’s all very fine 
For you folks to make game of misfortunes like mine, 
And to publish my story, and tell ev’ry one of it, 
But excuse me for saying, I can’t see the fun of it. 
‘There’s yourself, now ; you tell them you’re anxious to see 
Just for how long a time a poor critter like me . 
Can exist with this tight thing around his carotid, 
With a chronic sensation of being garotted. 
All the chaps in your office are jeering, alas ! at me ; 
The editor comes, and he looks through his glass at me. 
