For his voice she recognises, And she knows that, when in rage, Most ferocious is the aspect Of this valiant feline sage. III. From the tower's highest summit Gaze I at the world below; From my lofty seat I'm able To observe life's ceaseless flow. And the cat's green eyes are staring, And he laughs within his sleeve, That those pygmies there are trying Such great follies to achieve. What's the use? Up to my level Never can I raise mankind. Let them follow their devices, Small their loss is, to my mind. For perverted are men's actions, And their work is woe and crash. Conscious of his own great value, Grins the cat down on this trash! IV. O the world does us injustice, And for thanks I look quite vainly; For the finest chords of feline Nature, it mistakes so plainly. Thus, if some one falls down drunken, And a throbbing like a hammer Racks his heavy head on waking, Germans call it _Katzenjammer_. Katzenjammer, oh great insult! Gentle is our caterwauling; Only men I hear too often Through the streets at night-time bawling. Yes! they do us great injustice, Never can be comprehending All the deep and morbid sorrow Which a poor cat's heart is rending. V. Hiddigeigei often has raved with delight, The true, good, and beautiful seeking; Hiddigeigei often felt grief's deadly blight, And with tender sad yearnings was weeping. Hiddigeigei once has felt his heart glow, When the fairest of cats he was wooing; And just as a troubadour's love-songs flow, Rang nightly his spirited mewing. Hiddigeigei many a valiant fight, Like the Paladin Roland, was waging; But men have often belaboured his hide, And with dropping hot pitch made him raging. Hiddigeigei to his sorrow found out, That his fair one was false and deceiving That from a poor insignificant lout She was secretly visits receiving. Hiddigeigei then did open his eyes, Left off his pining and yearning; The world henceforth he learned to despise, To his inner self earnestly turning. VI. Lovely month of May, how hateful To a cat you are, and dreary Ne'er I thought such din of music Could a cat's heart make so weary. From the branches, from the bushes Birds their warbling notes are ringing; Far and wide, as if for money, Men I hear forever singing. There the cook sings in the kitchen-- Is love also her head turning? In falsetto she now screameth, That with rage my soul is burning.