“My bird was a green finch,” she said, “and he had the crossest little eye I’ve ever seen; it was like a sour bead, full of greediness. But all the same I loved him, and I shall never have such another. I shall never, never, have such a dear again. This man Skelton who wrote this poem must have known some little girl who lost a bird she loved, for listen to what he writes about it. It is called
“‘When I remember again How my Phylyp was slain Never half the payne Was between you twain, Pyramus and Thisbe, As then befell to me. I wept and I wayled, The tears down hayled, But nothing it availed To call Philyp again, Whom Gib, our cat, hath slain. Gib, I say, our cat Worried her on that Which I loved best. It cannot be expressed By sorrowful heaviness.
It was so prety a fool It wold sit on a stool; It had a velvet cap, And would sit upon my lap, And seek after small wormes And sometymes white bread crommes. Sometimes he wold gasp When he saw a wasp, A fly, or a gnat, He would fly at that; And pretily he wold pant When he saw an ant; Lord, how he wold pry After the butterfly! Lord, how he wold hop After the gressop! And when I sayd, Phyp, Phyp! Then he wold leap and skyp And take me by the lyp.
Alas! it will me slo That Phyllyp is gone me fro! For it wold come and go And fly so to and fro, And on me it wold leap When I was asleep, And his fethers shake, Wherewith he wold make Me often for to wake.
He did nothing perdie But sit upon my knee. Phyllyp had leave to go To pike my lytell toe; Phyllip might be bold And do what he wold. Phyllyp wold seek and take All the fleas blake That he could there espy With his wanton eye.
That vengeance I aske and cry By way of exclamation On the whole nation Of cattes, wyld and tame. God send them sorrowe and shame! That cat specially That slew so cruelly My lytell prety sparowe That I brought up at Carowe.
When I remember it, How pretily it wold sit Many times and oft On my finger aloft! His bill between my lippes-- It was my prety Phyppes! He was wont to repayre And go in at my spayre, And creep in at my gore Of my gown before, Flyckering with his wings. Alas! my heart it stings Remembrynge prety things!
Of fortune this the chance Standeth on variance Oft time after pleasaunce, Trouble and grievaunce No man can be sure All way to have pleasure. As well perceive ye may How my desport and play From me was taken away By Gyb, our cat, savage, That in a furious rage Caught Phyllyp by the head And slew him there, starke dead. _Kyrie eleison, Christe, eleison, Kyrie eleison_,