Classic Poem

R IKKI, WHO DIED AT Anna L IFFEY H OUSE , L UCAN

O toll the bell for Rikki, he is dead!
His little paws are folded on his breast;
His soul is fled
To some fair isle of meercats in the West
Where he may rest.
Bid the hound puppies wear a mournful mien,
The housedogs lift their voices in a keen.
Let Brother Raven ring the passing bell
To number Rikki's years.
Let Charles, the stable-cat, bind asphodel
About his pink-lined ears.
Let no presumptuous mouse with ribald squeak
Profane his grave.
But let the sunbeams make his bed less bleak
With warmth he used to crave.
And you who pass let fall the kindly tear
For Rikki may be near.
Mayhap his spirit at the fall of night
Peers with sharp eyes around the open door,
And creeps into the hearthstone's friendly light,
A darker shadow on the shadowed floor;
Standing erect he warms his furry chest,
Eyes bright with glee. Speak softly lest
His little ghost take sudden fright —
A rush, a scurry ... and his gentle sprite
Come back no more.