Poems (Argent)/Sims
SIMS.
HE cannot boast a pedigreeAs thoroughbred as it might be,And yet his Persian mother's coatIs of itself a thing of note!Oh! full of frolic and of whims Is dear old Sims.
He has a splendid fur, I ween,The darkest tabby I have seen,With markings of the tiger laidAlternately in light and shade,Gold eyes like wine, a nut-brown nose, And inky toes.
He thinks a bird is very niceBut hardly cares to look at mice,He has an aristocratic aimOf pouncing on all sorts of game!Brimful of mischief and of whims Is dainty Sims.
In truth he is a dainty cat,He scorns a plump and well-fed rat,And walks aside with nose in air,As if he mocked at such low fare;He hardly cares to sniff its limbs, So proud is Sims!
Of elevation he can boastWhen sitting on the linen-post! For that's a favourite sport to climbThe garden's pinnacle sublimeOh! he's a creature full of whims, My frisky Sims.
Some gentlemanly traits he owns,He never quarrels over bones;Though ofttimes bones with him I'll pickHe only gives back purr and lick.With tact his nature over-brims, So wise is Sims!
They say cats know but cupboard love,But that's not true, I dare to prove;No thief is he—such petty pelfIs far removed from his dear self.Faithful and trustworthy is Sims, Though full of whims.
He has one fault (if fault it be),He cares not for society;Of strangers he is very shy,He looks at them with half-shut eye,And, as a bird that from us skims, Away flies Sims.
No squaller on the house-top he,He rests at night most peacefullyBy "Prima Donna," in the hay,For neither turn the night to day.And so we pardon all his whims, For he is Sims!