A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten

To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken in a snappy, matter-of-fact way.


    Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
    Here lies a kitten good, who kept
    A kitten's proper place.
    He stole no pantry eatables,
    Nor scratched the baby's face.
    He let the alley-cats alone.
    He had no yowling vice.
    His shirt was always laundried well,
    He freed the house of mice.
    Until his death he had not caused
    His little mistress tears,
    He wore his ribbon prettily,
    He washed behind his ears.
    Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

Vachel Lindsay

Vachel Lindsay was an American poet known for his innovative performances of his poetry, which combined spoken word with music and theatrics. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay's work often revolved around American history and culture, reflecting his progressive social views. He played a significant role in the early 20th-century American poetry scene, influencing contemporaries and later poets with his dynamic style and passionate delivery.

Vachel Lindsay

The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Beyond the Moon

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

My Lady in her White Silk Shawl

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Wizard in the Street

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Sorrow For A Favourite Tabby Cat, Who Left This Scene Of Troubles, Friday Night, Nov. 26, 1819.

Let brutish hearts, as hard as stones,
Mock The weak Muse's tender moans,
As now she wails o'er Titty's bones
With anguish deep;
Doubtless o'er parent's dying groans
They'd little weep.

Ah, Pity! thine's a tender heart,
Thy sigh soon heaves, thy tears soon start;
And thou hast given the muse her part
Salt tears to shed,
To mourn and sigh with sorrow's smart;
For pussy's dead.

Ah, mourning Memory! 'neath thy pall
Thou utterest many a piercing call,
Pickling in vinegar's sour gall
Ways that are fled--
The way, the feats, the tricks, and all,
Of pussy dead.

Thou tell'st of all the gamesome plays
That mark'd her happy kitten-days:
-Ah, I did love her funny way
On the sand floor;
But now sad sorrow damps my lays:

John Clare

The Colubriad.

Close by the threshold of a door naild fast
Three kittens sat; each kitten lookd aghast.
I, passing swift and inattentive by,
At the three kittens cast a careless eye;
Not much concernd to know what they did there;
Not deeming kittens worth a poets care.
But presently a loud and furious hiss
Caused me to stop and to exclaim, Whats this?
When lo! upon the threshold met my view
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,
A viper long as Count de Grasses queue.
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kittens nose;
Who, having never seen, in field or house,
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;
Only projecting with attention due,
Her whiskerd face, she asked him, Who are you?
On to the hall went I, with pace not...

William Cowper

Fluffy, A Cat

So now your tale of years is done,
Old Fluff, my friend, and you have won,
Beyond our land of mist and rain,
Your way to the Elysian plain,
Where through the shining hours of heat
A cat may bask and lap and eat;
Where goldfish glitter in the streams,
And mice refresh your waking dreams,
And all, in fact, is planned - and that's
Its great delight - to please the cats.

Yet sometimes, too, your placid mind
Will turn to those you've left behind,
And most to one who sheds her tears,
The mistress of your later years,
Who sheds her tears to summon back
Her faithful cat, the white-and-black.

Fluffy, full well you understood
The frequent joys of motherhood -
To lick, from pointed tail to nape,
The mewing litter into shape;
To show, with ...

R. C. Lehmann

Sad Memories.

They tell me I am beautiful: they praise my silken hair,
My little feet that silently slip on from stair to stair:
They praise my pretty trustful face and innocent grey eye;
Fond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would that I might die!

Why was I born to be abhorr'd of man and bird and beast?
The bulfinch marks me stealing by, and straight his song hath ceased;
The shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then flees; and, worse than that,
The housedog he flees after me - why was I born a cat?

Men prize the heartless hound who quits dry-eyed his native land;
Who wags a mercenary tail and licks a tyrant hand.
The leal true cat they prize not, that if e'er compell'd to roam
Still flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately home.

They call me cruel. Do I know if mouse or so...

Charles Stuart Calverley

The Mysterious Cat

A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted by George Mather Richards.


    I saw a proud, mysterious cat,
    I saw a proud, mysterious cat
    Too proud to catch a mouse or rat -
    Mew, mew, mew.

    But catnip she would eat, and purr,
    But catnip she would eat, and purr.
    And goldfish she did much prefer -
    Mew, mew, mew.

    I saw a cat - 'twas but a dream,
    I saw a cat - 'twas but a dream
    Who scorned the slave that brought her cream -
    Mew, mew, mew.

    Unless the slave were dressed in style,
    Unless the slave were dressed in style
    And knelt before her all the while -
    Mew, mew, mew.

    Did you ever hear of a thing like that?
    Did you ever hear of...

Vachel Lindsay

Puss In The Corner.

"You are a naughty pussy-cat,
I think it right to mention that,
To all who see your picture here,
'Twas you who broke my Bunny dear.

An hour ago, as you can tell,
I left him here, alive and well;
And now he's dead and, what is more,
You've broke his leg I'm pretty sure.

For you my puss I'll never care,
No never, never, never, there,
And you are in disgrace you know,
And in the corner you must go.

What crying? Then I must cry too
And I can't bear to punish you;
Perhaps my Bunny isn't dead,
Perhaps you've only stunned his head.

And though I'm sure you broke his leg,
It may be mended with a peg,
And though he's very, very, funny,
My Bunny's not a real Bunny,
And I'll forgive and tell you that,
...

Lizzie Lawson