THOMAS MILLER,

MANUFACTURER OF

THE MOST IMPROVED WATER AND OIL COLOURS,

(52, Long Acre,)

AND, 33, RATHBONE PLACE, LONDON.

THE PAINTER'S REGRET.

Oh! colour, colour, dear tormenting colour,
Thou darling of the eye;—the sleek-faced muller
Can work thee round unto its will, but I
Am still thy slave by stern necessity.

Oh! I have read Sir Joshua's Discourses,
And drawn from life, and books, and other sources,
Have pondered over ponderous tomes no few,
And studied black and white till all was blue.

Yes! I have read and listened to the lectures,
And made my notes on notes, besides conjectures;
Ah! though I'm deeply read, yet I am pale,
'Tis the distemper colour that I ail.

No single teint is ruddy health's bereaver,
No yellow jaundice—no—nor scarlet fever;
But sad blue devils,—black despair unholy,
Mixed all with “green and yellow melancholy.”

My eye—I have but one—once such a bright eye,
Is now grown dull,—'is heavy, though a light eye,
Reflection, 'stead of brighter, makes me duller,
And though I'm white, 'tis all effect of colour.

I am beside myself, my head grows grey,
I'm getting more light-headed every day;
My blues and yellows look deranged and ill,
But oh! my red,—my red is madder still.

Oh! colour, thou hast thinned me to a weasel,
And yet I have no ease, but at my easel,
No rest but when the rest stick 's in my clutch,
No spirits but of turpentine or such.

Brushes of every sort of hair I've tried,
Fitch, Sable, Hog—and many a hair beside,
That cunning nature only for a wig meant,
As hog's hairs, surely only for a pigment.

Why use not colours that have mineral birth?
Why paint the tints of heaven with tints of earth?
Because, when metal colours die, 'tis fair
That earthy ones should stand the sun and air.

But vegetable colours too I've tried,
And placed the rose and lily side by side
On painted ladies' cheeks. Judge what one thinks,
To find one's fine carnations only pinks!

Oh! that my colours like my tears would flow;
But ah! I cannot varnish o'er my woe;
My colour 's flown, I cannot paint my grief,
I've opposition, but I've no relief.

I'm like my palette knife, a rare thin blade,
I'm gown so light, I'm nothing but a shade;
Yet colour, colour, is my hue and cry,
Oh! colour, colour, I shall surely die.

So every painter like his tints must fade,
For life is but made up of light and shade;
Yes!!! Death will come, and his palette dry,
Dead colour all his flesh, and glaze his eyes.

The Music of the above will be shortly published, at 33, Rathbone Place.