RE 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
Were expressions familiar to
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.
