Hartley Coleridge: To a Cat

Nelly, methinks, 'twixt thee and me

There is a kind of sympathy;

And could we interchange our nature, –

If I were cat, thou human creature, –

I should, like thee, be no great mouser,

And thou, like me, no great composer;

For, like thy plaintive mews, my muse

With villainous whine doth fate abuse,

Because it hath not made me sleek

As golden down on Cupid's cheek;

And yet thou canst upon the rug lie,

Stretch'd out like snail, or curl'd up snugly,

As if thou wert not lean or ugly;

And I, who in poetic flights

Sometimes complain of sleepless nights,

Regardless of the sun in heaven,

Am apt to doze till past eleven, –

The world would just the same go round

If I were hang'd and thou wert drown'd;

There is one difference, 'tis true, –

Thou dost not know it, and I do.

Poor Hartley! He was in some ways as talented as his more famous father, and perhaps even more fluent. But he was obsessed with the burden of being his father's son, and of being unable to compete. Not a happy destiny: in Don Paterson's words, he was "a drunk waiting to happen." Some excellent small poems, though. I can't decide whether the rhyme snugly/ugly is well-judged or fatuous.