To Jerry. Jerry, my cat, What would you be at ? What makes you so restless ?—you’re sleek and you’re fat, And you’ve ev’ry thing cosy about you—now that Soft rug you are lying on beats any mat. Your coat’s smooth as silk, You’ve plenty of milk : You’ve the fish bones for dinner, and always o’ nights For supper, you know, you’ve a penn’orth o’ lights. Jerry, my cat, What the deuce are you at ? What is it, my Jerry, that fidgets you so ? What is it you’re wanting ? (Jerry.) Moll Roe ! Moll Roe ! Oh, don’t talk to me of such nonsense as that ! You’ve been always a very respectable cat, As the Scotch would say, “ Whiles You’ve been out on the tiles ;” But you’ve sown your wild oats, and you very well know You’re no longer a kitten. (Jerry). Moll Roe ! Moll Roe ! Well, Jerry, I’m really concerned for your case, I’ve been young and can fancy myself in your place ! Time has been I’ve stood, By the edge of the wood, And have mus’d, that is, whistled, a sound just as good ; But we’re both of us older, my cat, as you know, And, I hope, are grown wiser. (Jerry.) Moll Roe ! Moll Roe !