Scripscrapologia or, Collins's Doggerel Dish Of All Sorts. Consisting of Songs Adapted to familiar Tunes, And which may be sung without the Chaunterpipe of an Italian Warbler, or the ravishing Accompaniments of Tweedle-Dum or Tweedle-Dee. Particularly those which have been most applauded in the author's once popular performance, call'd, The Brush. The Gallimaufry garnished with a variety of comic tales, quaint epigrams, whimsical epitaphs, &c. &c. [by John Collins] |
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THE CAT EATER!
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 | Scripscrapologia |  |
THE CAT EATER!
A Comic Tale.
Though facts will swell as stories fly,
'Till truth, o'erstretch'd, becomes a lie,
The tell-tale here no legend frames,
Which more than mod'rate credence claims;
Nor, bouncer-like, a fiction broaches,
For those who swallow lies like loaches;
Nor Sceptic dreads, whose scowling eye,
At aught uncommon darts the lie;
So con the tale,—His heart's at quiet,
Believe it, doubt it, or deny it.
'Till truth, o'erstretch'd, becomes a lie,
The tell-tale here no legend frames,
Which more than mod'rate credence claims;
Nor, bouncer-like, a fiction broaches,
For those who swallow lies like loaches;
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At aught uncommon darts the lie;
So con the tale,—His heart's at quiet,
Believe it, doubt it, or deny it.
John Trot, a homespun Country Putt,
Jack Sly one morning met, full-butt;
Who, starting, star'd, and stamm'ring said,
Lord! Juh-Juh-John! what, an't you dead?
Dead! whoy? says John: Dear heart, quoth Sly,
Don't rave, I'll tell the reason why;
Dick Bam declares, who saw the sight,
You eat up Three Live Cats last night!
Eat Three Loive Cats, quoth John, odd rot it!
Proime news! I wonder wheere he got it!
But I'll soon foind—so speeds to Bam,
Who flatly swore 'twas all a flam:
I could not say, quoth Dick, that You
Had eat Three Cats, 'twas only Two:
Two! In the Deevil's neame, and who
Has told, says Trot, this teale to You?
Bob Banter.—O, he did, quoth John,
I'll meake him cheange his noate anon!
So hies to Banter, all agog,
Whom thus he greets:—‘Yow sland'ring dog,
‘Who reake up loies to gull the flats,
‘Did I, last neet, eat Two Loive Cats?’
Two, replies Banter, that's rare fun!
Eat Me if I said more than One.
Than One, and, dom it, whoy say That?
Whoy say, that I eat ONE Loive Cat?
Your brother told me so, says Bob;—
If so, says John, I'll jolt his knob:
Jack Sly one morning met, full-butt;
Who, starting, star'd, and stamm'ring said,
Lord! Juh-Juh-John! what, an't you dead?
Dead! whoy? says John: Dear heart, quoth Sly,
Don't rave, I'll tell the reason why;
Dick Bam declares, who saw the sight,
You eat up Three Live Cats last night!
Eat Three Loive Cats, quoth John, odd rot it!
Proime news! I wonder wheere he got it!
But I'll soon foind—so speeds to Bam,
Who flatly swore 'twas all a flam:
I could not say, quoth Dick, that You
Had eat Three Cats, 'twas only Two:
Two! In the Deevil's neame, and who
Has told, says Trot, this teale to You?
Bob Banter.—O, he did, quoth John,
I'll meake him cheange his noate anon!
So hies to Banter, all agog,
Whom thus he greets:—‘Yow sland'ring dog,
‘Who reake up loies to gull the flats,
‘Did I, last neet, eat Two Loive Cats?’
Two, replies Banter, that's rare fun!
Eat Me if I said more than One.
Than One, and, dom it, whoy say That?
Whoy say, that I eat ONE Loive Cat?
Your brother told me so, says Bob;—
If so, says John, I'll jolt his knob:
So, off went Cain, in quest of Abel,
With mind whose index lack'd no label;
As frowning brow, and flashing eye,
To John's intents ne'er gave the lie;
And, had he then met Tom, his brother,
Death might have levell'd one or t'other:
But, fortunately, John, thus fool'd,
No brother found till passion cool'd;
When, lighting then, on Tattling Tom,
He cry'd, ‘Wheere got'st thou that teale from,
‘(Pies on thy tongue, thou foul-mouth'd brat,)
‘That I, last neet, gobb'd up a Cat?’
A Cat, cries Tom, your sputt'ring spare,
A Puss, I said, a fine fat Hare,
Mother herself, here, told me That,—
‘You lie, you rogue, not Hare, nor Cat,’
Quoth Old Dame Trot, ‘so donna blab it,
‘I only said, John eat a Rabbit;
‘And that's a truth, I'll pledge my life,
‘For, here's my author, John's own Wife!’
With mind whose index lack'd no label;
As frowning brow, and flashing eye,
To John's intents ne'er gave the lie;
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Death might have levell'd one or t'other:
But, fortunately, John, thus fool'd,
No brother found till passion cool'd;
When, lighting then, on Tattling Tom,
He cry'd, ‘Wheere got'st thou that teale from,
‘(Pies on thy tongue, thou foul-mouth'd brat,)
‘That I, last neet, gobb'd up a Cat?’
A Cat, cries Tom, your sputt'ring spare,
A Puss, I said, a fine fat Hare,
Mother herself, here, told me That,—
‘You lie, you rogue, not Hare, nor Cat,’
Quoth Old Dame Trot, ‘so donna blab it,
‘I only said, John eat a Rabbit;
‘And that's a truth, I'll pledge my life,
‘For, here's my author, John's own Wife!’
When John's meek spouse demurely rose,
And cry'd, “Good friends, this contest close;
For, sure as women breed by marriage,
Stories will always breed in carriage;
And though Three Cats of English breed,
'Tis said, poor John dispatch'd with speed;
John supp'd, as oft he'as supp'd before,
On one Welch Rabbit,—Nothing more.”
And cry'd, “Good friends, this contest close;
For, sure as women breed by marriage,
Stories will always breed in carriage;
And though Three Cats of English breed,
'Tis said, poor John dispatch'd with speed;
John supp'd, as oft he'as supp'd before,
On one Welch Rabbit,—Nothing more.”
DOCUMENT.
This tale let mem'ry take in tow,'Twill slack the strings of slander's bow:
Dumbfound each fable-broaching fool,
And shake the props of scandal's school:
For, when foul babblers raise a pack
Of lies, to load a neighbour's back;
Tell them, you join no sland'rers jeers,
Nor to fools' tongues lend asses' ears,
Nor make, for flams, to impose on flats,
Of One Welch Rabbit, Three Live Cats!
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