The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
31
AN ODE TO EIGHT CATS,
Belonging to Israel Mendez, a Jew.
SCENE—The Street in a Country Town.The Time, Midnight—the Poet at his Chamber Window.
SINGERS of Israel, oh ye singers sweet,
Who, with your gentle mouths from ear to ear,
Pour forth rich symphonies from street to street,
And to the sleepless wretch the night endear;
Who, with your gentle mouths from ear to ear,
Pour forth rich symphonies from street to street,
And to the sleepless wretch the night endear;
Lo! in my shirt, on you these eyes I fix,
Admiring much the quaintness of your tricks;
Your friskings, crawlings, squalls, I much approve;
Your spittings, pawings, high-rais'd rumps,
Swell'd tails, and merry-andrew jumps,
With the wild minstrelsy of rapt'rous love.
Admiring much the quaintness of your tricks;
Your friskings, crawlings, squalls, I much approve;
Your spittings, pawings, high-rais'd rumps,
Swell'd tails, and merry-andrew jumps,
With the wild minstrelsy of rapt'rous love.
How sweetly roll your gooseb'rry eyes,
As loud you tune your am'rous cries,
And, loving, scratch each other black and blue!
No boys in wantonness now bang your backs,
No curs, nor fiercer mastiffs, tear your flax,
But all the moonlight world seems made for you.
As loud you tune your am'rous cries,
And, loving, scratch each other black and blue!
No boys in wantonness now bang your backs,
No curs, nor fiercer mastiffs, tear your flax,
But all the moonlight world seems made for you.
Singers of Israel, you no parsons want
To tie the matrimonial cord;
You call the matrimonial service, cant—
Like our first parents, take each other's word:
On no one ceremony pleas'd to fix—
To jump not even o'er two sticks.
To tie the matrimonial cord;
You call the matrimonial service, cant—
Like our first parents, take each other's word:
On no one ceremony pleas'd to fix—
To jump not even o'er two sticks.
32
You want no furniture, alas!
Spit, spoon, dish, frying-pan, nor ladle;
No iron, pewter, copper, tin or brass;
No nurses, wet or dry, nor cradle,
Which custom, for our Christian babes, enjoins,
To rock the staring offspring of your loins.
Spit, spoon, dish, frying-pan, nor ladle;
No iron, pewter, copper, tin or brass;
No nurses, wet or dry, nor cradle,
Which custom, for our Christian babes, enjoins,
To rock the staring offspring of your loins.
Nor of the lawyers have you need,
Ye males, before you seek your bed,
To settle pin-money on madam:
No fears of cuckoldom, heav'n bless ye,
Are ever harbour'd to distress ye,
Tormenting people since the days of Adam.
Ye males, before you seek your bed,
To settle pin-money on madam:
No fears of cuckoldom, heav'n bless ye,
Are ever harbour'd to distress ye,
Tormenting people since the days of Adam.
No schools you want for fine behaving,
No powdering, painting, washing, shaving,
No nightcaps snug—no trouble in undressing
Before you seek your strawy nest,
Pleas'd in each other's arms to rest,
To feast on love, heav'n's greatest blessing.
No powdering, painting, washing, shaving,
No nightcaps snug—no trouble in undressing
Before you seek your strawy nest,
Pleas'd in each other's arms to rest,
To feast on love, heav'n's greatest blessing.
Good gods! ye sweet love-chanting rams!
How nimble are you with your hams
To mount a house, to scale a chimney-top;
And peeping down that chimney's hole,
Pour in a tuneful cry th' impassion'd soul,
Inviting Miss Grimalkin to come up:
How nimble are you with your hams
To mount a house, to scale a chimney-top;
And peeping down that chimney's hole,
Pour in a tuneful cry th' impassion'd soul,
Inviting Miss Grimalkin to come up:
Who, sweet obliging female, far from coy,
Answers your invitation note with joy,
And scorning 'midst the ashes more to mope;
Lo! borne on love's all-daring wing,
She mounteth with a pickle-herring spring,
Without th' assistance of a rope.
Answers your invitation note with joy,
And scorning 'midst the ashes more to mope;
Lo! borne on love's all-daring wing,
She mounteth with a pickle-herring spring,
Without th' assistance of a rope.
Dear mousing tribe, my limbs are waxing cold—
Singers of Israel sweet, adieu, adieu!
I do suppose you need not now be told
How much I wish that I was one of you.
Singers of Israel sweet, adieu, adieu!
I do suppose you need not now be told
How much I wish that I was one of you.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |