Lyr/Chords Req: Songs about cats

Subject: RE: Lyr/Chords Req: Songs about cats
From: FreddyHeadey
Date: 01 Feb 16 - 02:06 PM

"I'm Going to Drown My Cat"

Arthur Marshall says "... and I stole Teddy Bear's Rave-up and Drown my Cat from Tony Light, and have no idea who wrote them ..." on his notes for his
"Ass" CD

You can hear it (till ~end Feb2016) here on a borrowed squeezebox
bollingtonfolkclub/sound-clips > 29/01/2016 audio clips

Subject: Lyr Add: THE HAIRY BUCK CAT
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 01 Feb 16 - 07:50 PM

From a broadside at the Bodleian Library, Oxford:

(There is a similar version here.)


THE HAIRY BUCK CAT

My name it is Bill; I once kept a mill
Near the town of Clonmell, I will never deny.
I had a buck cat; 'twas heavy and fat.
He would kill a rat at the wink of an eye.
He was hairy and strong; his whiskers was long.
This nation I'd travel without any hat
To get satisfaction out of the damn'd rascal
Who strangled my grandmother's hairy buck cat.

To tell you in plain, my cat he was tame.
A saucer of cream he would lap every day,
And then in the evening, to keep him from screeching,
A ha'porth of bread and a small cup of tea.
My cat he was wise; he'd go off in disguise
To hunt for some mice or a monstrous rat,
But a neighbour called Tom I suspect very strong
For killing my grandmother's hairy buck cat.

Indeed, Billy Dillon, you are an old villain
For to accuse me of killing your buck,
But by all the she-goats from Kerry to Moat,
I'll have satisfaction before I am shuck.
By this, that, and t'other, and Belzebub's mother,
And Cain's eldest brother, and his grandfather's hat;
By Lord Norbury's wig, and the price of my pig,
I never had a hand in the death of your cat.

'Twas from Dolly's bray my cat went astray
On that mem'rable day, the 12th of July.
Being in want of some meat, the truth for to state,
He went hunting some rats at a village hard by.
They did him surround, left him dead on the ground,
With his fine Orange sash and Cromwellian hat.
My curse on the robber, be he drunk or sober,
That strangled my grandmother's hairy buck cat.

By the red-shirted knave—Garibaldi, I mean—
And the King of Sardinia, may he have the gout.
May an African bug build a nest in his lug.
With the tic-doloreux, may his grinders fall out.
By every old trooper, and big-bellied souper
That preaches for bacon—oh, don't they get fat?—
By King Bill's dirty breeches, that both stinks and itches,
I never had a hand in the death of your cat.

By the great Bog of Allen, and big river Shannon,
And the heather that grows on the high hill of Howth;
By Sarsfield the brave, that lies in his grave,
And the sweet little razor that cut Castlereaght's throat;
By cursed Martin Luther, and Old Nick his tutor,
And Cromwell the villain, who thousands lay flat;
By Queen Anne's petticoat, and that a big oath,
I never had a hand in the death of your cat.

Indeed, Tommy Kelly, you are a fine fellow.
You may curse and swear till you're black in the pate.
The truth I must tell, you know it right well.
Your creed you would sell for a lump of fat meat.
By the Peltus M'Cue, and the great Pandeen Rue,
I'll warm your hide with the tail of a rat.
Regardless of moans, I'll break all your bones
For killing my grandmother's hairy buck cat.

By Wellington's nose, and the bellows that blows
The fire where old Harry and Cranmer doth sit,
In the regions, I mean, where tyrants doth reign
In Lucifer's region with old Billy Pitt;
By old Bishop Knox, John Calvin and Fox,
And the cabbage-bred pdp, Geo. Adair and his hat;
By the virgin Queen Bess, and the priest-hunting mess,
I don't care a ---- for you or your cat.

A somewhat different version, from a broadside at the National Library of Scotland:

BUCK CAT

My name it is Bill, and I once kept a mill
Near the town of Clonmell, I will never deny.
I had a Buck Cat that was hairy and fat,
And would worry a rat in the wink of an eye.
He was heavy and strong; his whiskers were long.
This Nation I'd travel without any hat
To get satisfaction out of the vile rascal
That strangled my grandmother's hairy Buck Cat.

It is from Dollybray, my cat went astray,
On that memorable day, the 12th of July,
Where he went to ensnare—the truth I declare—
Some harmless rats that were living close by.
When he came to the ground, his match there he found.
They did him surround, and paid him for his chat.
I left him in his gore and I saw him no more,
But the loss I deplore of my beautiful Cat.

Indeed, Billy Dillon. you are a great villain,
For to accuse me sure of killing your Buck.
By all the she-goats from Kerry to Moat,
I will have satisfaction before I am shook.
You sorely ill used me, and likewise abused me.
Indeed such an action I would scorn as that.
Believe me, dear neighbours, he's done his endevours
To take my character for killing his Cat.

By the eternal wars, and by all the Jack Tars,
In England, Ireland, and Scotland also;
By Toby the Pig, and Lord Norberry's wig,
I ne'er done the deed which you very well know.
By Napoleon the brave, who lies in his grave,
And by Sarsfield who gave all his foes tit for tat;
By Lepocorn Russell, and Queen Anne's dirty bustle,
I ne'er had a hand in the death of your Cat.

By King Harry the brute, who polluted the truth,
And Cranmer to boot, the inventor of lies;
By Calvin and Knox, and the infamous Fox,
That made Protestant Saints before ever they died;
By Neddy the get, the Apostolic pet,
And his own sister Bet, who had many a brat;
By the vile Reformation that caused desolation,
I ne'er had a hand in the death of your Cat.

By Jimmy O'Brien, who hung scores in his time—
To swear by the same now indeed I'm not loath;
By old Billy Pitt, to swear, I'm not fit;
By Lord Castlereagh who cut his own throat;
By Martin and Luther, and old Nick his tutor,
Or Cromwell the villain who thousands laid flat;
By Harry and Bess, and the whole of the rest,
I ne'er had a hand in the death of your Cat.

By the Four Courts of Dublin, and Nelson's great pillow,
By all the Jackasses, that is a big oath;
By all the John Bulls that smashed many skulls
On Waterloo plains where the battle was fought;
By Brian the brave that beat all the Danes,
Shoved them into the sea just like a dead rat;
By "Buckshot" the knave, who would us enslave,
I ne'er had a hand in the death of your Cat.

I gave satisfaction about the transaction.
I vow and declare the truth I did speak.
Bill won't believe me, which sorely does grieve me.
My curse on his Cat both early and late.
By the bellows of h—ll, and Peg Trentham's bell,
Or Usker's big flail shat leveled them flat;
By King Bill's dirty breeches that stinks and itches,
I never had a hand in the death of your Cat.

Subject: Lyr Add: THE TEA-TABLE TABBY TOM'S TRAGIC TALE
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 01 Feb 16 - 08:13 PM

From a broadside at The Bodleian Library, Oxford:

THE TEA-TABLE TABBY TOM'S TRAGIC TALE:
Being a companion to that excellent song of "The Wig, the Hat, and the Cane."
To the tune of "Away with Those Queer Married Fellows," in the "Gay Deceivers" by Mr. Bannister.

One eve, as an old maiden lady,
At table, at tea-time, she sat.
On her right was her pussy, call'd Sadi;
On her left was her Tabby Tom-cat.
She anxious expected her lover
To tea, and have scandalous chat.
He brought with him his little dog Rover,
Who wasn't too fond of a cat.

That he might not lose sight of his fair,
Her humpy friend opposite sat.
Little Rover slunk under the chair,
For fear of the Tabby Tom-cat.
Nine cups drank the humpy-back lover.
He thought he had long enough sat,
So the crumbs of the table got Rover;
The milk got the Tabby Tom-cat.

Poor Sadi no longer could bear it.
To quarrel he set about pat.
The milk he thought then he should share it
Along with the Tabby Tom-cat.
The cats they both swore a deep bass.
Little Rover growl'd deeper than that,
Till, at last, a good scratch on the face
He receiv'd from the Tabby Tom-cat.

In the fight, the tea-table turn'd over,
And the things on the floor they fell flat.
The groats were spilt over the lover,
The urn on the Tabby Tom-cat.
This fight made a great consternation.
The lovers got both in a pet,
And a final and sad separation
Was caus'd by the Tabby Tom-cat.

Subject: Lyr Add: BATCHELOR SNIP, THE CAT CATCHER
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 04 Feb 16 - 08:02 AM

From a broadside at The Bodleian Library, Oxford:


BATCHELOR SNIP, THE CAT CATCHER

Old Batchelor Snip he lived in a cot
And a gardener by profession.
A lover he was to his pipe and his pot
And his name I don't choose for to mention.

Lol de rol la, my story, I say,
My story is as true as the light of the day.

Old Sall Neverwed lived the very next door
In a house that was neatly thatched, sir.
Her age I am sure was nearly four score
And she kept a dollop of cats, sir.

These cats in the gardener's ground they would go.
It is as true as my story that passes.
They'd fight and they'd tear, molrow, & they'd swear,
My eye! And they'd smash all his glasses.

Now the gardener swore that their lives was no more
If in a trap he could catch them behind, sir.
He put things in the ground but the cats trod 'em down
And drove him most out of his mind, sir.

Mr. Tommy one night on the water butt sat
And he sat there a while with content, sir,
Till out came Marm Tib and a molrow she give
And down in the garden they went, sir.

Then strait down the garden they each took their way.
Like two lovers they walked side by side, sir,
Till a trap caught by their tails then quite taught.
Molrow and blue murder they cried, sir.

Now they lugg'd and they tugg'd till off come their tails.
They came off very close to their rump, sir.
You'd have laughed to have seen this king and queen
How they wriggled and waggled their stump, sir.

Now you rambling cats, beware of these traps
Or you will meet with a shocking disaster,
For like Tibby and Tom you'll be hopping along
With no tail for to cover your stern, sir.

Subject: Lyr Add: THE GHOST (1799)
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 04 Feb 16 - 05:35 PM

A 12-line excerpt from this appears in a "broadside" at The Bodleian Library, Oxford as the caption to an engraving, broken into 4-line stanzas like a ballad. However, I found the original in two journals—The European Magazine, and London Review, Volume 35 (London: J. Sewell, March, 1799), page 189; and The Scots Magazine, Volume 61 (Edinburgh: James Watson, May, 1799), page 329—where it appears as a poem, not a song:


THE GHOST
A tale.

Would you your tender offspring rear
With minds well form'd, devoid of fear,
Ne'er let the nurse with idle tale
Of Ghost their infant ears assail,
Or Bug-a-boo! Or Chimney-sweep!
To terrify them into sleep.
Thus, when matur'd by rip'ning age,
And brought upon the world's great stage,
No midnight horrors vex the soul
Of howling dog, or hooting owl!
But on they move, with manly tread,
Across the mansions of the dead;
Or pass the ruin'd tower, where
Tradition says 'Goblins appear.
Not so the hapless wight, whose mind
Is in the nursery confin'd,
Who bears about him, as a curse,
The strong impressions made by Nurse;
He sees the flaming cinder fly
From out the grate, then with a sigh
Exclaims, "A coffin—I shall die!
And see, a winding sheet does glide
Adown the candle's gutt'ring side!"
Thus does conceit o'er sense prevail,
Which brings me to the following tale:

Near fam'd St Giles' tow'ring fane,
In the close windings of a lane,
And, snug retreat from public eye!
In the next story to the sky,
Two Taylors lodg'd in the same bed,
One Mayo nam'd—the other Ned:
One winter evening as they sat
With ale and pipe in friendly chat,
Quoth Mayo, "Ned, you are my friend,
Upon whose faith I can depend;
Know, then, my means are in such plight,
I must be off before 'tis light;
To sea my course I mean to shape,
But let not this your lips escape,
And now and then I'll write you, Ned,
If not, you may suppose me dead."
Th' astonished taylor sees his friend
Quick down the garret stairs descend,
And hears these awful words with dread,
"Farewell—I'm yours, alive or dead!"—
"And yet, why need I feel alarm?
I never did poor Mayo harm,"
Says Ned; "and, should his ghost appear,
I'll speak to it; why should I fear?"

'Twas at that drear and awful hour
When Ghosts and Goblins shew their power,
The clock struck one, when thoughtful Ned
Lay restless tumbling in his bed.
"Who knows (quoth he) poor Mayo's doom?
He may be in a wat'ry tomb,
Or 'midst the horrors of a wreck,
Or wounded bleeding on the deck.
Alas! Why did he tempt the main?
I ne'er shall see my friend again!"
At this he hears a mournful sound
Proceeding as from under ground,
Repeat with hollow voice and slow
These words—"Mayo, mayo, mayo!"
With hair erect, and staring eyes,
Poor trembling Ned, in wild surprize,
The bed-clothes o'er him nimbly drew;
Then bawls, "In God's name, who are you?
If you're my late much valu'd friend
And met with an untimely end,
You know I never did you harm.
Then why my spirits thus alarm?
If to discover hidden treasure,
I trembling wait your awful leisure!
Or be your business what it may,
I follow—pray you lead the way;
And as your form you will not show,
Pray let me hear your voice!"—"Mayo!"
In mournful sounds he hears once more,
And thinks them near his garret door;
Then gently stepping from his bed,
And peeping round, o'erwhelm'd with dread!
Behind the door, low couch'd he spies
A huge black cat, with saucer eyes!
And now his heart no longer quails
When thus Grimalkin he assails:
"What devil put it in thy head
To take thy station near my bed?
I'll give thee something in a trice,
Not quite so good as catching mice!
Something not quite so sweet as amber!"
Then thrusts him in the Pot de Chambre;
Saying, "You've been a Ghost to me.
You're therefore laid in the Red Sea!"

Subject: RE: Lyr/Chords Req: Songs about cats
From: keberoxu
Date: 05 Feb 16 - 02:26 PM

Talking of the Prairie Home Companion:

one evening the guest was Willie Nelson. With Garrison Keillor, he did a parody of his Julio Iglesias duet.

To all the cats I've known before
Who wanted to come in my door
And then they turned about
And wanted to go out
So they could come back in some more

To all the cats who shed their hair
And tripped me coming down the stairs
And left a you-know-what
upon the ? ? rug
And scratched up all my easy chairs....

Subject: RE: Lyr/Chords Req: Songs about cats
From: Thompson
Date: 06 Feb 16 - 04:41 AM

British music hall song - Don't Do That to the Poor Puss Cat

Subject: Lyr Add: THE PUSSY CAT SONG (NYOW! NYOT NYOW!)
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 08 Feb 16 - 07:34 AM

You can hear this at YouTube.


THE PUSSY CAT SONG (NYOW! NYOT NYOW!)
Words and music by Dick Manning
As recorded by Patty Andrews and Bob Crosby, 1948.

This is a story 'bout a guy who came home late one night.
(Must 'a' been two or three a.m., some'n' like that.)
"Gotta get me some sleep," he yawned (yawn) as he turned out the light.
(Must 'a' been too tired to do any readin'.)
Whether he dreamed what happened, or if he heard it, he wouldn't bet,
But he swears it sounded like two cats (p-r-r, p-r-r) singing a duet.

Come yout, come yout, come yout, my pretty kitten.
We will sing a little tune.
Nyot nyow.
Come yout, come yout, come yout, my pretty kitten.
We will serenade the moon.
Nyot nyow.
When the folks got home tonight at twelve or thereabout,
They locked the door and they forgot to put me yout.
Come yout, come yout, come yout, my pretty kitten.
Nyow? Nyot nyow.

Come yout, come yout, come yout, my pretty kitten.
This is me, your boyfriend, Tom.
Nyot nyow.
Come yout, come yout, come yout, my pretty kitten.
This is Tom, the atom bomb!
Nyot nyow.
I assure you I'd come yout if only I knew how.
They tell me that you really are the cat's meow.
Come yout, come yout, come yout, my pretty kitten.
Nyow? [Miscellaneous cat sounds.] Yes, nyow.


[Also recorded by Jo Stafford and Gordon Macrae.]