Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
    By famous Hanover city;
    The river Weser, deep and wide,
    Washes its wall on the southern side;
    A pleasanter spot you never spied;
    But, when begins my ditty,
    Almost five hundred years ago,
    To see the townsfolk suffer so
    From vermin, was a pity.

    II.

       Rats! 
    They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
    And bit the babies in their cradles,
    And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
    And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles,
    Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
    Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
    And even spoiled the women’s chats
    By drowning their speaking
    With shrieking and squeaking
    In fifty different sharps and flats.

    III.

    At last the people in a body
    To the Town Hall came flocking: 
    “’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy: 
    And as for our Corporation—­shocking
    To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
    For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
    What’s best to rid us of our vermin! 
    You hope, because you’re old and obese,
    To find in the furry civic robe ease! 
    Rouse up, Sirs!  Give your brains a racking
    To find the remedy we’re lacking,
    Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”
    At this the Mayor and Corporation
    Quaked with a mighty consternation.

    IV.

    An hour they sat in council,
    At length the Mayor broke silence: 
    “For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell,
    I wish I were a mile hence! 
    It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain—­
    I’m sure my poor head aches again,
    I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain. 
    Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!”
    Just as he said this, what should hap
    At the chamber door, but a gentle tap! 
    “Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?”
    (With the Corporation as he sat
    Looking little though wondrous fat;
    Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
    Than a too-long-opened oyster,
    Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
    For a plate of turtle green and glutinous). 
    “Only a scraping of shoes on the mat
    Anything like the sound of a rat
    Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”

    V.

    “Come in!” the Mayor cried, looking bigger: 
    And in did come the strangest figure! 
    His queer long coat from heel to head
    Was half of yellow and half of red,
    And he himself was tall and thin,
    With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
    And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin
    No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,
    But lips where smiles went out and in;
    There was no guessing his kith and kin! 
    And nobody could enough admire
    The tall man and his quaint attire. 
    Quoth one:  “It’s as if my great-grandsire,
    Starting up at the trump of Doom’s tone,
    Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”