Hogarth Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Young William Hogarth had a critic's eye
His father ran a Latin speaking café
That drove the family into bankruptcy

As an apprentice to a silversmith
He learned the trade, excelled at artistry
He joined a drawing school to hone his skill
Run by the talented Sir James Thornhill

And then, Hogarth eloped with Thornhill's daughter
He never balked at ruffling the odd feather

He loved the theatre. Kept a pug called Trump
Painted a Harlot's Progress, Marriage à la mode
A Rake's Progress, from heir to sodden lump

He drew Miss Sarah Malcolm in her cell
Two days before she died upon the scaffold
And painted fairs, and strolling actresses
The scenes in Bedlam, Gin's appalling hold
Judith Dufour had throttled her sweet babe
To pawn its clothes to keep herself in drink
All this, and other horror tales were told

He fashioned portraits of the famed and poor
Of the eleventh Lord Lovat, Simon Fraser
Beheaded on Tower Hill, and the Shrimp Girl
To immortality he duly raised her

Short, blue eyed, witty, stocky, kindly man
He died at sixty six, a loss to Art
Hogarth, in his rumbustious century
Painted the truth, and of that truth was part