An Epitaph

‘Tis false that all of pussy’s race
Regard not person but the place,
For here lies one who, could she tell
Her stories by some magic spell,
Would, from the quitted barn and grove,
Her sporting haunts, to show her love,
At sound of footsteps, absent long,
Of those she soothed with purring song,
Leap to their arms in fond embrace,
For love of them, and not for place.

from the tombstone of a cat, Meaford Hall, near Stone, Staffordshire, England.