Dear friends, receive attentively
A strange account of Mr. C.
With your permission I'll relate
(And you may smile at his sad fate),
That while reposing on his bed,
And airy thoughts flit through his head,
A weary mouse house-hunting crept,
Close to the pillow where he slept;
But there not feeling quite at ease,
And wishing much himself to please,
He looked with grave and thoughtful air
On Mr. C.'s dishevelled hair.
Ah! here's the station I like best,
Said he, and here I'll build my nest.
The scalp conceals a poet's brain,
So here till morning I'll remain;
Perhaps the muse will me inspire,
And if she tune her magic lyre,
I'll to the world proclaim that we,
Though mice, like men may poets be.
Our hero thus descanted long
On love, and poesy, and song;
While now and then a gentle squeal
His vocal powers would reveal.
His strain of eloquence was broke,
For Mr. C., perplexed awoke,
And starting up — I do declare
There's something scraping in my hair;
A light! a light! what shall I do?
At this the mouse alarmed withdrew;
And had he not, I'm certain, death
Had stopped, ere long, his little breath.