The traps of wire and traps of steel,
Were only play, compared with him.

At length, so sadly were they scared,
The rats and mice no longer dared
To show their thievish faces
Outside their hiding-places,
Thus shunning all pursuit; whereat
Our crafty General Cat

Contrived to hang himself, as dead,

Beside the wall, with downward head,

Resisting gravitation's laws

By clinging with his hinder claws

To some small bit of string.

The rats esteemed the thing

A judgment for some naughty deed,
Some thievish snatch,

Or ugly scratch ;

And thought their foe had got his meed

By being hung indeed.

With hope elated all

Of laughing at his funeral,

They thrust their noses out in air;

And then to show their heads they dare,

Now dodging back, now venturing more.

At last, upon the larder's store

They fall to filching, as of yore.

A scanty feast enjoyed these shallows;
Down dropped the hung one from his gallows,
And of the hindmost caught.

"Some other tricks to me are known,"

Said he, while tearing bone from bone,

"By long experience taught;

The point is settled, free from doubt,

That from your holes you shall come out."

His threat as good as prophecy

Was proved by Mr. Mild-and-sly;
For, putting on a mealy robe,

He squatted in an open tub,

And held his purring and his breath ;Out came the vermin to their death.

On this occasion, one old stager,
A rat as gray as any badger,
Who had in battle lost his tail,
Abstained from smelling at the meal;
And cried, far off, "Ah! General Cat,
I much suspect a heap like that.
Your meal is not the thing, perhaps,
For one who knows somewhat of traps ;
Should you a sack of meal become,
I'd let you be, and stay at home."

Well said, I think, and prudently,
By one who knew distrust to be
The parent of security.

"COME TO THE MAY-POLE!"

[FROM WESTMINSTER DROLLERY.']

OME, Lasses and Lads, get leave of your Dads,
And away to the May-pole hie,
For every fair has a sweetheart there,
And the fiddler's standing by.

For Willy shall dance with Jane,

And Johnny has got his Joan,

To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it,
Trip it up and down.

Strike up, says Wat: agreed, says Matt,

And I prithee, fiddler, play;

Content, says Hodge, and so says Madge,

For this is a holiday.

Then every lad did doff

His hat unto his lass,

And every girl did curtsey, curtsey,

Curtsey on the grass.

Begin, says Hal: aye, aye, says Mall,
We'll lead up Packington's Pound;
No, no, says Noll, and so says Doll,

We'll first have Sellinger's Round.

Mr. W. Chappell, in his admirable work on Popular Music of the Olden Time, states that the words of this song are still in print in Seven Dials.

You're out, says Dick,-not I, says Nick,
'Twas the fiddler play'd it wrong;
'Tis true, says Hugh, and so says Sue,

And so says every one.

The fiddler then began

To play the tune again,

And every girl did trip it, trip it,

Trip it to the men.

Let's kiss, says Jane,-content, says Nan,

And so says every she;

How many? says Batt,-why three, says Matt,

For that's a maiden's fee.

The men, instead of three,

Did give them half a score;

The maids in kindness, kindness, kindness,

Gave 'em as many more.

Then, after an hour, they went to a bow'r,
And play'd for ale and cakes ;
And kisses too,-until they were due

The lasses held the stakes.

The girls did then begin

To quarrel with the men,

And bade them take their kisses back,
And give them their own again.

Now there they did stay the whole of the day,
And tired the fiddler quite

With dancing and play, without any pay,

From morning until night.

They told the fiddler then

They'd pay him for his play,

Then each a twopence, twopence, twopence,

Gave him, and went away.

Good night, says Harry,-good night, says Mary; Good night, says Dolly to John;