My clothes they were the queerest shape! 
Such coats and hats she never met! 
My ways they were the oddest ways! 
My friends were such a vulgar set! 
Poor Tomkinson was snubb’d and huff’d—­
She could not bear that Mister Blogg—­
What d’ye think of that, my Cat? 
What d’ye think of that, My Dog?

At times we had a spar, and then
Mamma must mingle in the song—­
The sister took a sisters part—­
The Maid declared her Master wrong—­
The Parrot learn’d to call me “Fool!”
My life was like a London fog—­
What d’ye think of that, my Cat? 
What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

My Susan’s taste was superfine,
As proved by bills that had no end—­
I never had a decent coat—­
I never had a coin to spend! 
She forced me to resign my Club,
Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog—­
What d’ye think of that, my Cat? 
What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout
To fops and flirts, a pretty list;
And when I tried to steal away,
I found my study full of whist! 
Then, first to come and last to go,
There always was a Captain Hogg—­
What d’ye think of that, my Cat? 
What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

Now was not that an awful dream
For one who single is and snug—­
With Pussy in the elbow-chair
And Tray reposing on the rug?—­
If I must totter down the hill,
’Tis safest done without a clog—­
What d’ye think of that, my Cat? 
What d’ye think of that, my Dog?

RURAL FELICITY.

Well, the country’s a pleasant place, sure enough,
    for people that’s country born,
And useful, no doubt, in a natural way, for growing
    our grass and our corn. 
It was kindly meant of my cousin Giles, to write
    and invite me down,
Tho’ as yet all I’ve seen of a pastoral life only
    makes one more partial to town.

At first I thought I was really come down into
    all sorts of rural bliss,
For Porkington Place, with its cows and its pigs,
    and its poultry, looks not much amiss;
There’s something about a dairy farm, with its
    different kinds of live stock,
That puts one in mind of Paradise, and Adam
    and his innocent flock;
But somehow the good old Elysium fields have
    not been well handed down,
And as yet I have found no fields to prefer to dear
    Leicester Fields up in town.

To be sure it is pleasant to walk in the meads,
    and so I should like for miles,
If it wasn’t for clodpoles of carpenters that put
    up such crooked stiles;
For the bars jut out, and you must jut out, till
    you’re almost broken in two,
If you clamber you’re certain sure of a fall, and
    you stick if you try to creep through. 
Of course, in the end, one learns how to climb
    without constant tumbles down,