Limericks

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.