78 
THE FALL OF PRIDE. 
The one of rank her signal knew, 
For she was Fortune’s care : 
The milkmaid, Molly, crying “ mew !” 
Hail’d her the favourite there. 
She minced her dainty mince-pie crumbs 
In ladies’ laps, by turns, 
And purr’d, just like a bee that hums, 
Or turner’s wheel,—that turns. 
The other cat’s old Goody Gray 
Made catsup, writers write,— 
But careful saw, each busy day, 
Her cat sup, every night. 
The tale is told, she held it sin 
What once her cat befell,— 
When boys a kettle tied of tin 
To her unfolded tail. 
And well for them, they kept aloof,— 
’Tis clear there was no clause, 
Just then in her most just behoof 
To keep them from her claws. 
She, scampering wild through lane and street, 
(For fear, even soldier's drives ;) 
Though featly using her four feet, 
Lost one of her nine lives ! 
Of brownest bread the low cat ate, 
But well the other said, 
Such stuff was never made for great- 
Big folks that were well-bred, 
