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His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw ; Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regal’d,
On pippins' russet peel,
Slic'd carrot pleas'd him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he lov'd to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at ev'ning hours,
For then he lost his fear,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons,
And ev'ry night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts, that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath this walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He still more aged feels the shocks,
From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
, burning bright
In what distant deeps or skies
And what shoulder and what art
What the hammer? what the chain ?
When the stars threw down their spears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright