Poems (Argent)/Sims

by Alice Emily Argent

SIMS.

HE cannot boast a pedigree
As thoroughbred as it might be,
And yet his Persian mother's coat
Is 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 laid
Alternately in light and shade,
Gold eyes like wine, a nut-brown nose,
  And inky toes.

He thinks a bird is very nice
But hardly cares to look at mice,
He has an aristocratic aim
Of 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 boast
When sitting on the linen-post!
For that's a favourite sport to climb
The garden's pinnacle sublime
Oh! 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 pick
He 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 pelf
Is 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 peacefully
By "Prima Donna," in the hay,
For neither turn the night to day.
And so we pardon all his whims,
  For he is Sims!