ODE TO THE EIGHT CATS

BELONGING TO

ISRAEL MENDEZ,

A Jew.

SCENE, Midnight.-The Poet in his Shirt at the Window.

[PETER PINDAR.]

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!

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.

How sweetly roll your gooseb'ry 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, no fiercer mastiffs,
tear your flax;

But all the moonlight world seems made for you.

Singers of Israel! Ye no parsons want
To tie the matrimonial cord;

Ye 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.

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.

Nor of the lawyers have ye need,
Ye males, before ye seek your bed,
To settle pin-money on Madam:
No fears of cuckoldom, God bless ye!
Are ever harbour'd to distress ye,
Tormenting people since the days of Adam.

No schools ye want, for fine behaving,
No powd'ring, painting, washing, shaving,
No night-caps snug-no trouble in undressing,
Before you seek your strawy nest,

Pleas'd in each other's arms to rest,

To feast on luscious love, life's choicest blessing!

Good gods! Ye sweet love-chaunting 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 tone,
Inviting Miss Grimalkin to come up;

Who, sweet obliging creature, 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.

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.

GRACE SPOKEN AT A MISER'S TABLE,
[BY ROCHESTER.]

THANKS for this miracle! It is no less

Than manna dropping in the wilderness : Chimnies have smok'd that never smok'd before, And we have din'd where we shall dine no more.

LINES

OCCASIONED BY

KING CHARLES THE SECOND AND THE EARL

OF LAUDERDALE SLEEPING,

WHILE DR. SOUTH WAS PREACHING AT WHITEHALL.

OLD South, a witty churchman reckon'd,
Was preaching once to Charles the Second;
But much too serious for a court,
Who at all preaching made a sport:
He soon perceiv'd his audience nod,
Deaf to the zealous man of God.
The Doctor stopp'd, began to call,
"Pray wake the Earl of Lauderdale;

"My Lord! why 'tis a monstrous thing,
"You snore so loud-you'll wake the King."

PINNED TO A SHEET,

IN WHICH A WOMAN STOOD TO DO PENANCE IN THE CHURCH..

HERE Stand I, for whores as great

To cast a scornful eye on;

Should each whore here be doom'd a sheet,

You'd soon want one to lie on.

EPITAPH,

IN GUILDFORD CHURCH-YARD.

READER, pass on, ne'er waste your time
On bad biography, and bitter rhyme;
For what I am this cumb'rous clay insures,
And what I was-is no affair of yours.

ANOTHER,

IN CURRY CHURCH-YARD, NEAR EDINBURGH,

ON A SCHOOLMASTER.

BENEATH these stones lie Mackie's bones;
O Satan! if you take him,"

Appoint him tutor to your sons,
And clever de'ils he'll make 'em.

EPITAPH ON LITTLE STEPHEN,

A NOTED FIDDLER, IN SUFFOLK.

STEPHEN and time

Are now both even;

Stephen beat time,

Now time beats Stephen.