Catoninetales A Domestic Epic: By Hattie Brown: A young lady of colour lately deceased at the age of 14 [i.e. W. J. Linton] |
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 | Catoninetales |  |
Now must we diverge to a right tuneful
Let never dog bark,
But loving cats hark
And echo our moan!
Though myself but a dog,
Yet I feel that no clog
To my sorrows, which jog
On in unison
With the mourners around,
Who me worthy found
With not too dogged sound
T' accompany them
In these first obsequies
Of the friend that here lies
And to me did devise
His fit requiem.
So I Leo, allow'd
A cat's name, here avow'd,
Of which Popes are proud
In their haught catalog',
Find currage to lay
On this noble Cat's clay
What an advocate may
Who is only a dog.
He was supple and brave,
As was proved by that knave
That brought him to his grave:
I anticipate here:
But the words may remain,
For he has to be slain
Again, and again
Till nine lives disappear.
He was striped like a pumpkin,
Had shoulders and rump thin,
And well could a jump win
With any a-foot;
Sleek was he and dainty;
Steals, so, and why mayn't he?
If not quite a saint, he
Ain't less of a brute.
So to speak of him present:
The thought is unpleasant
Of him all decessant
If not all deceased:
Though I'd say to his face
That not one of his race
Has less call for the grace
Of dog poet or priest.
For his gifts, they were great;
What he stole, that he ate;
For his faults, who shall state
Any ill of the Dead?
O, might I be likewise!
Pour, tears! from all eyes;
And the kind Destinies
Heave a stone at his head!
Dirge.
Dark Melancholy! mark!
Let never dog bark,
But loving cats hark
And echo our moan!
Though myself but a dog,
Yet I feel that no clog
To my sorrows, which jog
On in unison
With the mourners around,
Who me worthy found
With not too dogged sound
T' accompany them
In these first obsequies
Of the friend that here lies
And to me did devise
His fit requiem.
So I Leo, allow'd
A cat's name, here avow'd,
Of which Popes are proud
In their haught catalog',
Find currage to lay
On this noble Cat's clay
What an advocate may
Who is only a dog.
7
As was proved by that knave
That brought him to his grave:
I anticipate here:
But the words may remain,
For he has to be slain
Again, and again
Till nine lives disappear.
He was striped like a pumpkin,
Had shoulders and rump thin,
And well could a jump win
With any a-foot;
Sleek was he and dainty;
Steals, so, and why mayn't he?
If not quite a saint, he
Ain't less of a brute.
So to speak of him present:
The thought is unpleasant
Of him all decessant
If not all deceased:
Though I'd say to his face
That not one of his race
Has less call for the grace
Of dog poet or priest.
For his gifts, they were great;
What he stole, that he ate;
For his faults, who shall state
Any ill of the Dead?
O, might I be likewise!
8
And the kind Destinies
Heave a stone at his head!
Sic transit Catus Mundi,
Translated Sunday.
And exit Leo.
What recks it me?
Translated Sunday.
And exit Leo.
What recks it me?
Oh!
Though this first fytte be ended,
Thereto is appended
Sir Kok's pedigree:
(Sacrificium laudis)
Which now sent abroad is
As written by me
Though this first fytte be ended,
Thereto is appended
Sir Kok's pedigree:
(Sacrificium laudis)
Which now sent abroad is
As written by me
H.B.
| Catoninetales | |