I'm feeling—great heavens!—all sixes and sevens,

And dizzy, and giddy, and green;

Knocked flat as a pancake, I've got a blank, blank ache

All over—a sight to be seen!

Alas! for the reason 'tis easy to seize on—

The same I'll proceed to relate:—

I've just come from Brussels, whence, after some tussles

With conscience, I rushed to my fate.

For by Calais and Dover I safely brought over

A contraband hatful of weeds;

Ah, why did I struggle to juggle and smuggle,

Thus paying the price for my deeds?

They cost each five farthings, and goodness! they are things

You'd not get your worst foe to smoke,

This "Cabbagio Fino" has giv'n me a beano—

But there! I'm too seedy to joke!

So this crude composition I pen in contrition,

My state of collapse to explain;

I thought to be clever, but never, oh never,

Will make such a bargain again!

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!

"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,