THERE is a big artist named Val,
The roughs’ and the prize—fighters’ pal:
The mind of a groom
And the head of a broom
Were Nature’s endowments to Val.
There is a Creator named God
Whose creations are sometimes quite odd:
I maintain—and I shall—
The creation of Val
Reflects little credit on God.
There is a dull Painter named Wells
Who is duller than any one else:
With the face of a horse
He sits by you and snorts—
Which is very offensive in Wells.
There’s an infantine Artist named Hughes—
Him and his the R.A.'s did refuse:
At length, though, among
The lot, one was hung—
But it was himself in a noose.
There’s a babyish party named Burges
Who from infancy hardly emerges:
If you had not been told
He’s disgracefully old,
You would offer a bull’s—eye to Burges.
There is a young person named Georgie
Who indulges each night in an orgy:
Soda—water and brandy
Are always kept handy
To efface the effects of that orgy.
There is a young Artist named Jones
Whose conduct no genius atones:
His behaviour in life
Is a pang to the wife
And a plague to the neighbours of Jones.
There is a young Painter called Jones
(A cheer here, and hisses, and groans):
The state of his mind
Is a shame to mankind,
But a matter of triumph to Jones.
There’s a Painter of Portraits named Chapman
Who in vain would catch woman or trap man
To be painted life—size
More preposterous guys
Than they care to be painted by Chapman.
There’s a combative Artist named Whistler
Who is, like his own hog—hairs, a bristler:
A tube of white lead
And a punch on the head
Offer varied attractions to Whistler.
There’s a publishing party named Ellis
Who’s addicted to poets with bellies:
He has at least two—
One in fact, one in view—
And God knows what will happen to Ellis.
There’s a Portuguese person named Howell
Who lays—on his lies with a trowel:
Should he give—over lying,
'Twill be when he’s dying,
For living is lying with Howell.
There is a mad Artist named Inchbold
With whom you must be at a pinch bold:
Or else you may score
The brass plate on your door
With the name of J. W. Inchbold.
A Historical Painter named Brown
Was in manners and language a clown:
At epochs of victual
Both pudden and kittle
Were expressions familiar to Brown
There was a young rascal called Nolly
Whose habits though dirty were jolly;
And when this book comes
To be marked with his thumbs
You may know that its owner is Nolly.
There are dealers in pictures named Agnew
Whose soft soap would make an old rag new:
The Father of Lies
With his tail to his eyes
Cries—“Go it, Tom Agnew, Bill Agnew!”
There’s a solid fat German called Huffer
A hypochondriacal buffer:
To declaim Schopenhauer
From the top of a tower
Is the highest ambition of Huffer.
There’s a Scotch correspondent named Scott
Thinks a penny for postage a lot:
Books, verses, and letters,
Too good for his betters,
Cannot screw out an answer from Scott.
There’s a foolish old Scotchman called Scotus,
Most justly a Pictor Ignotus:
For what he best knew
He never would do,
This stubborn [old] donkey called Scotus.
There once was a painter named Scott
Who seemed to have hair, but had not.
He seemed too to have sense:
'Twas an equal pretence
On the part of the painter named Scott.
There’s the Irishman Arthur O’Shaughnessy—
On the chessboard of poets a pawn is he:
Though a bishop or king
Would be rather the thing
To the fancy of Arthur O’Shaughnessy.
There is a young Artist named Knewstub,
Who for personal cleaning will use tub:
But in matters of paint
Not the holiest Saint
Was ever so dirty as Knewstub.
There is a poor sneak called Rossetti:
As a painter with many kicks met he—
With more as a man—
But sometimes he ran,
And that saved the rear of Rossetti.
As a critic, the Poet Buchanan
Thinks Pseudo much safer than Anon.
Into Maitland he shrunk,
But the smell of the skunk
Guides the shuddering nose to Buchanan.