ART'S MARTYR

He said, The China on the shelf

Is very fair to view,

And wherefore should mine outer self,

Not correspond thereto?

In blue

My frame I must tattoo.

Where may tattooing men abound,

And ah, where might they be?

Nay, well I wot they are not found

In lands of Christentie,

( Quoth he )

But I must cross the sea!

So forth he sailed to Borneo,

( A land that culture lacks,)

And there his money did bestow

To purchase pricks and hacks,

( Dyacks

Are famed tattooing blacks. )

But European commerce had

Debased the savage kind,

And they this most unhappy lad

Before ( and eke behind )

Designed

In colours to their mind!

Such awful colours as are blent

On terrible placards

Where flames the fierce advertisement

Yea, or on Christmas cards

( Not Ward's,

But common Christmas cards! )

Thus never more to Chelsea might

The luckless boy return,

He knew himself too dreadful, quite,

A thing his friends would spurn,

And turn

To praise some Grecian urn!

But still he dwells in Borneo,

A land that culture lacks,

And there they all admire him so,

They bring him heads in sacks,

Dyacks

Are NOT aesthetic blacks!