The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Nature's a coarse, vile, daubing jade—
I've said it often, and repeat it—
She doth not understand her trade—
Artists, ne'er mind her work, I hope you'll beat it.

Look now, for Heav'n's sake, at her skies!
What are they?—Smoke, for certainty, I know;
From chimney-tops, behold! they rise,
Made by some sweating cooks below.

Look at her dirt in lanes, from whence it comes—
From hogs, and ducks, and geese, and horses' bums.
Then tell me, decency, I must request,
Who'd copy such a dev'lish nasty beast?

Paint by the yard—your canvass spread,
Broad as the main-sail of a man of war—
Your whale shall eat up ev'ry other head,
Ev'n as the sun licks up each sneaking star!

I do assure you, bulk is no bad trick—
By bulky things both men and maids are taken—
Mind, too, to lay the paints like the mortar thick,
And make your picture look as red as bacon.
All folks love size; believe my rhime;
Burke says, 'tis part of the sublime.

A Dutchman, I forget his name—Van Grout,
Van Slabberchops, Van Stink, Van Swab,—
No matter, though I cannot make it out—
At calling names I never was a dab:

This Dutchman, then, a man of taste,
Holding a cheese that weigh'd a hundred pound,
Thus, like a Burgomaster, spoke with judgment vast
‘No poet like my broder step de ground:

He be de bestest poet, look!
Dat all de world must please;
For he heb vrite von book,
So big as all dis cheese!’

If at a distance you would paint a pig,
Make out each single bristle on his back:
Or if your meaner subject be a wig,
Let not the caxon a distinctness lack;
Else, all the lady critics will so stare,
And, angry vow, ‘'Tis not a bit like hair!’

Be smooth as glass—like Denner finish high;
Then every tongue commends—
For people judge not only by the eye,
But feel your merit by their finger ends:
Nay! closely nosing, o'er the picture dwell,
As if to try the goodness by the smell.

Claude's distances are too confus'd—
One floating scene—nothing made out—
For which he ought to be abus'd,
Whose works have been so cry'd about.

Give me the pencil, whose amazing style
Makes a bird's beak appear at twenty mile;

And to my view, eyes, legs, and claws will bring,
With ev'ry feather of his tail and wing.

Make all your trees alike, for nature's wild—
Fond of variety, a wayward child—
To blame your taste some blockheads may presume;
But mind that every one be like a broom.
Of steel and purest silver form your waters,
And make your clouds like rocks and alligators.

Whene'er you paint the moon, if you are willing
To gain applause—why paint her like a shilling:
Or Sol's bright orb—be sure to make him glow
Precisely like a guinea or a jo.
In short, to get your pictures prais'd and sold
Convert, like Midas, every thing to gold.

I see, at excellence, you'll come at last—
Your clouds are made of very brilliant stuff;
The blue on China mugs are now surpass'd,
Your sun-sets yield not to brick walls, nor buff.

In stumps of trees your art so finely thrives,
They really look like golden-hafted knives!
Go on, my lads—leave Nature's dismal hue,
And she, ere long, will come and copy you.

A Portugal coin, vulgarly called a Johannes.