A newborn spirit hath recently
Come over the whole cat-nation,
But chiefly the young, and the young cat feels
More earnest with inspiration.
The frivolous generation of old
Is extinct, and a newborn yearning,
A pussy-springtime of poetry
In art and in life they’re learning.
The philharmonic young cats’ club
Is now returning to artless
And primitive music, and naïveté,
From modern fashions all heartless.
It seeks in music for poetry,
Roulades with the quavers omitted
It seeks for poetry, music-void,
For voice and instrument fitted.
It seeks for genius’s sovereign sway,
Which often bungles truly,
Yet oft in art unconsciously
Attains the highest stage duly.
It honours the genius which prefers
Dame Nature to keep at a distance,
And will not show off its learning,—in fact
Its learning not having existence.
This is the programme of our cat club,
And with these intentions elated,
It holds its first winter concert to-night
On the roof, as before I have stated.
Yet sad was the execution, alas!
Of this great idea so splendid;
I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz,
That by thee it wasn’t attended.
It was a charivari, as though
With brandy elated greatly,
Three dozen pipers struck up the tune
That the poor cow died of lately.
It was an utter medley, as though
In Noah’s ark were beginning
The whole of the beasts in unison
The Deluge to tell of in singing,