The Fearful Finale of the Irascible Mouse

Upon a stairway built of brickA pleasant-featured clockFrom time to time would murmur “Tick”And vary it with “Tock”:Although no great intelligenceThere lay in either word,They were not meant to give offenceTo anyone who heard.

Within the pantry of the house,Among some piles of cheese,There dwelt an irritable mouse,Extremely hard to please:His appetite was most immense.Each day he ate a wedgeOf Stilton cheese. In consequenceHis nerves were all on edge.

With ill-concealed impatience he,Upon his morning walk,Had heard the clock unceasingly,Monotonously talk,Until his rage burst every bound.He gave a fretful shout:“Well, sakes alive! It’s time I foundWhat all this talk’s about.”

With all the admirable skillThat marks the rodent raceThe mouse ran up the clock, untilHe’d crept behind the face,And then, with words that no one thoughtTo use, and scornful squeals,He cried aloud: “Just what I thought!Great oaf, you’re full of wheels!”

The timepiece sternly said: “Have done!”And through the silent houseIt struck emphatically one.(But that one was the mouse!)To earth the prowling rodent fell,In terror for his life,And turned to flee, but, sad to tell,There stood the farmer’s wife.

She did not faint, she did not quail,She did not cry out: “Scat!”She simply took him by the tailAnd gave him to the cat,And, with a stern, triumphant look,She watched him clawed and cleft,And with some blotting paper tookUp all that there was left.

The moral: In a farmer’s homeRun down his herds, his flocks,Run down his crops, run down his loam,But when it comes to clocks,Pray leave them ticking every oneIn peace upon their shelves:When running down is to be doneThe clocks run down themselves.