An Appeal to the Rats—by One of Themselves.
"On Tuesday night, at Shaw's, Bunhill Row, his little dog, Tiney, weighing only 5½ lbs, killed two hundred rats in fifty-six minutes and fifty seconds."—Vide Bell's Life.
Ye rats of England—if there still remains
That love of idleness, of dirt, and drains,
Which your bold ancestors from Norway brought,
When years ago this sea-girt isle they sought—
Brown, black, or white, large, middle-sized, or small,
I charge ye, listen to a patriot's call!
No matter where your residence may be,
If by the water-side or hollow tree,
Ye lie contented in some moss-lined nook,
And calmly listen to the murmuring brook;
Whether in lordly pile or cottage bred,
In well-stored barn or under pigstye bed;
If bean rick hold you, or you fix your seat
In barley staddle, or in thatch of wheat,
Behind a wainscoat, or beneath a floor,
I ask your presence, and I ask no more.
Be ye but ready, and ne'er heed how rough,
Though bred and nurtured in "a common sough,"
Wrongs ye have suffered, wrongs, too, tamely borne—
The time is come ! discard the yoke you've worn!
Shall all things else with liberty be blessed,
And rats alone have evils unredressed?
