A Cook, whose learning passed for great,
His kitchen left one evening late,
Intent (he was a man of godly life)
On pot-house ale in memory of his wife,
Who died that day a year before;
And, as he had of eatables a store,
To keep them safe from mouse or rat
He placed on guard a favourite Cat.
What’s this he sees on his return? The floor
All strewn with pie-crust, Tommy* on the stretch
Behind a cask, a chicken in his jaws,
And purring softly as a bone he gnaws.
“Ah, glutton! Ah, thou nasty wretch!
The Cook’s tongue for abuse was much respected:
“Is’t not a shame in thee to desecrate these walls?
(Tommy the while a nice tit-bit inspected)
What thou, that everyone a nice Cat calls,
A model for all mildness past belief,—
O thou — fie, blush for thy disgrace!
The neighbours all shall cry out to thy face:
‘Tomcat’s a rogue! Tomcat’s a thief!
Nor yard nor kitchen now shall Tommy see;
From hungry wolves the sheep-fold should be free:
The scandal he, the pest, the eyesore of our streets!
(Tom listens, yes; but — still he eats!)
Our orator, once set on morals preaching,
Could find no end unto his flow of teaching.
What then? while he his own words followed,
Tommy the last piece of the roast had swallowed.
And I would teach our Cook, the dunce,
By letters in the wall cut big:
To waste no time in talking like a prig,
But force employ at once.