Quoth the wise cat Hiddigeigei: Ere it rots, the fruit be plucking; So, if years should come of famine, Memory's paws remain for sucking. X. Even a God-fearing conduct, Cannot keep us from declining; With despair I see already In my fur some gray hairs shining. Yes, unpitying Time destroyeth All for which we've boldly striven; For against the sharp-toothed tyrant Nature has no weapons given. Unadmired and forgotten We fall victims to this power. Wish I could, with fury raging, Eat both clock-hands of the tower. XI. Long past is the time, ere man in his might O'er the earth his dominion was spreading; When the mammoth roamed in his ancient right Through the forests which crashed 'neath his treading. In vain may'st thou search now far and near For the Lion, the desert's great ruler; But we must remember, that we live here In a climate decidedly cooler. In life and in fiction is given no praise To the great and the highly gifted; And ever weaker is growing the race Till genius to nothing is sifted. When cats disappear the mice raise their voice, Till they like the others skedaddle; At last in mad frolic we hear _them_ rejoice-- The infusoria rabble. XII. Hiddigeigei sees with sorrow To a close his days are drawing; Death may come at any moment, So deep grief his heart is gnawing. O how gladly I the riches Of my wisdom would be preaching, That in joy as well as sorrow Cats might profit from my teaching. Ah! the road of life is rugged; On it rough sharp stones are lying. Stumbling o'er this path so dreary, Sprained and bruised we limp on crying. Life oft useless wounds is giving. For 'tis full of brawls and knavery; Vainly many cats have fallen Victims to an empty bravery. But for what this constant fretting? The young cats are laughing ever, No advice from me accepting-- Only suffering makes them clever. Let us see what they'll accomplish; History's teachings are derided: His sage maxims ne'er to publish, Hiddigeigei has decided. XIII. Growing weaker, breathing harder, Soon I'll feel Death's shadow o'er me: Make my grave there in the store-house, In my former field of glory. Valiantly all round me slaying Fought I like a raging lion: In his armour clad then bury Of his race the last brave scion. Yes the last, because the offspring Win their parents equal never! They are good but wooden people, Not so witty nor as clever.