"PITY THE POOR ARTIST!"

Who would be a political "screever"? A drudge Foredoomed to designing, and destined to smudge, Like impressionist painters of posters? Art's in a rum way. Lor! what humbug it is! Far better the days of old Cruikshank and Phiz, Than our era of blobbers and boasters. With chalks, and my thumb, and a bit of old rag, I can do better work on a rough slab of flag Than they do on smooth hot-pressed paper. But oh! what a bother to squat and to smear All sorts of strange subjects, quaint, squiffy and queer, To please every lounger and gaper. There once was a time when the old repertore The public would fetch. Now they want a lot more, And always a somethink that's novel, And then such a choice of 'em! Not one or two Seascapes, with a liberal yaller and blue, Or some picture of cottage or hovel. Two mackerels crossed, or a slice o' red salmon, A rasher o' bacon, or lump o' brown "gammon," A ginger-beer bottle and candle. A rat in a trap and a portrait or two, Say old Garibaldi, the Wandering Jew, And p'raps Julius Cæsar or Handel. These gave satisfaction to parties all round; But 'tisn't so now as I lately have found. They ask a whole National Gallery. And every one wants his own fav'rite fust off. Good old "Moonlight Scene"? Why, a yokel would scoff At anythink bluey-and-yallery. They claim fancy-chalks now, or pollychrome pastel; It's no use to tip 'em a storm or a castle; They want "local colour"—a lot of it. Yes, something distinctly Welsh, Irish, or Scotch; My pitch in these critical days is no cotch; I'm sick of the worry and rot of it! Pity the artist! What boots that appeal? No! "Many help one," or "A heart that can feel," Won't fetch 'em, however well flourished. I did think that Guy Fawkes blow-up of the Lords Would call out the coppers; but shrugs and cold words Have damped the last hope that I nourished. Awful cynicle lot! Scarcely one a believer In me, it would seem, since that there Grand Old Screever To my hands has turned his pitch over. There! I've touched up the lightning, and now I am ready! But, though I must look bright, expectant, and steady, I don't feel percisely in clover! [Left waiting for patronage.

"One love, one life," was my ancient manner, For introspection I had no brain, But I would have died beneath her banner, Or I would have lived, her grace to gain. I loved her silent, I loved her sprightly, With Grecian braid or with glossy curl; I loved her wrongly, I loved her rightly, But ever I loved a single girl. But now with ennui my love is laden Before it really has quite begun; If I win the heart of any maiden It makes me prefer another one. Dim passions stir me, deflections fleeting; I feel myself in a hopeless whirl. There never are less than six competing. Why can I not love a single girl? Contented I and my love were mated In those brave days when we both were young. For marriage I'm now too complicated, Too many-natured, too finely-strung. My spreading canvas all zephyrs vary For one calm funnel how can I furl? In truth, the statute is somewhat chary. And old, and grey, grows the dearest girl! Oh, love that was loyal, losing, winning, That time and change had no power to quell, That once could even dispense with sinning, And that possession could not dispel! Your day is done, and your star's declining, The hero was but a brainless churl Who ever dreamed that without repining His whole life long he could love one girl! And yet, I feel there is something wanting. The knowledge that love is sure to die To every lover is disenchanting. I would I loved as in days gone by. 'Twas braver folly the height to capture, Though down from the height Fate often hurls. He misses woe, but he misses rapture, Who falls in love with too many girls!