The Terrific Legend of the Kilkenny Cats
O’Flyn she was an Irishman, as very well was known,
And she lived down by Kilkenny, and she lived there all alone,
With only six great large tom-cats as knew their ways about,
And ev’ry body else besides she scrup’lously shut out.
Oh, very fond o’ cats was she—(and whisky too, ’tis said,)
She didn’t feed ’em very much, but she comb’d ’em well instead;
As may be guess’d, these large tom-cats, they didn’t get very sleek
Upon a combing once a-day, and a “ha’porth” once a-week.
Now on one dreary winter’s night, O’Flyn she went to bed,
The whisky-bottle under her arm, (the whisky in her head,)
The six great large tom-cats they sat all in a dismal row,
And horridly glared their hungry eyes—their tails wagg’d to and fro
At last one grim greymalkin spoke in accents dire to tell,
And dreadful were the words which in his awful whisper fell—
When all the other five tom-cats in answer loud did squall,
“Let’s kill her—and let’s eat her—body and bones and all!”
Oh horrible! oh terrible! oh deadly tale to tell!
When the sun shone in the window-hole all there seem’d still and well;
The cats they sat and lick’d their paws, all in a merry ring,
But nothing else within the place looked like a living thing;
Anon they quarrell’d savagely, and spit, and swore, and hollo’d,
Till at last these six great large tom-cats they one another swallow’d;
And nought but one long tail was left in that once peaceful dwelling,
And a very tough one too it was—it’s the same as I’ve been telling. [C. B.]