It's all very pretty to hang us up here,

And pretend that you worship our genius and paint;

You fancy it's "Cultchah" that rings in the year—

But it ain't!

You find us, you say, "a delight to the eye;"

You exclaim that "such painting you never did see!"

You "do" us—then scamper below with the cry—

"Cup o' tea!"

"Old Masters," indeed! It's "Young Students" with you—

To their show in your thousands you flock in the spring;

But of Me you exclaim, as you come in my view—

"What a thing!"

Just six months ago in these rooms you'd declare

It was "exquisite Art" that you saw; you forgot

That you'd said that of us. Bah! What do you care?

Not a jot!

Of course, there are some who are men of the day,

Who belong to the band of the talented few;

Right gladly we put forth our hand, as we say—

"How de do?"

For example, young Raphael—my excellent friend—

And the later Italians and Germans as well,

They consider Sir Frederic Leighton no end

Of a swell.

Then Reynolds declared, in the course of a chat,

The "Cherry Ripe" picture of Millais to be

As good as "Penelope Boothby." What's that?

"So does he?"

Van de Velde asserts he knows less of a wave,

It's colour and drawing, than Moore at his best.—

But when of your Coles and your Hunters you rave,

I protest!

Talk of Titian and Watts in a breath—which you may;

Young Gilbert and Swan you may praise if you will;

But the thought of the annual summer display

Makes me ill!

Yet that's what the mass of the people enjoyed.

And the few who come here, both the great and the small,

Mostly come to be seen. What—you think I'm annoyed?

Not at all!

We expect it.—I said just as much to Vandyck—

There's but one in a hundred that comes who'll descry

The beauty of Art. It's the sham I dislike.

Well—good-bye!