The Village Artist
He cursed the church, he drank much gin,
He followed wenches by the score.
He was a man of utter sin.
Our matrons turned him from the door.
He made a rainbow glory grow
As if old streets were regions new.
Forgotten loves of long ago
Touched an old woman whom he drew. . . .
He died at last, of too much gin …
We are a Christian folk, and we
Treasure, forgiving of his sin,
His pictures for posterity.
He followed wenches by the score.
He was a man of utter sin.
Our matrons turned him from the door.
He made a rainbow glory grow
As if old streets were regions new.
Forgotten loves of long ago
Touched an old woman whom he drew. . . .
He died at last, of too much gin …
We are a Christian folk, and we
Treasure, forgiving of his sin,
His pictures for posterity.
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