And now another day is gone:
Once more that intellectual one

Desists from high-minded pursuits,
And hungry, staring at his boots,
Has not the strength to pull them on.

Come back, dear Liz, and looking wise
In that arm-chair which suits your size
Through some fresh drawing scrape a hole.
Your Valentine & Orson's soul

Is sad for those two friendly eyes.

ADDRESS TO THE DALZIEL BROTHERS

"O WOODMAN, spare that block,
Oh gash not anyhow!

It took ten days by clock,

I'd fain protect it now.'

"

Chorus-Wild Laughter from Dalziel's Workshop.

THE WOMBAT

Oн how the family affections combat

Within this heart, and each hour flings a bomb at My burning soul! Neither from owl nor from bat Can peace be gained until I clasp my wombat.

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.

ON WILLIAM MORRIS

ENTER Skald, moored in a punt,
And jacks and tenches exeunt.

THE BROTHERS:

BY A SCOTCH BARD AND ENGLISH REVIEWER

I AM two brothers with one face,
So which is the real man who can trace?
(My wrongs are raging inside of me.)
Here are some poets and they sell,
Therefore revenge becomes me well.

(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

Of course you know it's a burning shame, But of my last books the press makes game! (My wrongs are boiling inside of me.)

So at least all other bards I'll slate

Till no one sells but the Laureate.

(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

I took a beast of a poet's tome

And nailed a cheque, and brought them home; (My wrongs were howling inside of me.)

And after supper, in lieu of bed,

I wound wet towels round my head.

(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

Of eyelids kissed and all the rest,

And rosy cheeks that lie on one's breast,
(My wrongs were yelling inside of me)
I told the worst that pen can tell,-
And Strahan and Company loved me well.
(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

I crowed out loud in the silent night,

I made my digs so sharp and bright:

(My wrongs were gnashing inside of me.) In our Contemptible Review

I struck the beggar through and through. (Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

I tanned his hide and combed his head,
And that bard, for one, I left for dead.

(My wrongs are hooting inside of me.) And now he's wrapped in a printer's sheet, Let's fling him at our Public's feet.

(Oh Robert-Thomas is dread to see.)

SMITHEREENS

UNCERTAIN-AGED Miss Thereabouts,
Tough fossil of her teens,
Has lifted up with saving hand
The ruined Smithereens.

Down the dark steps of debt that hand
Sped like an angel's wing,
Deep-dowered with gold, and for itself
Brought back a golden ring.

Ah lovely Lucy Lovandove,

That ring's a snake, and means Woe without end: therein lies crushed Thy heart to smithereens.

ON CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

THERE'S a female bard, grim as a fakier, Who daily grows shakier and shakier,