THE HARTISTS' MODEL
by
Robert Rutherford & Harold Arpthorp ( 1924 )
 To look at me you wouldn't think that I'd been everything!
I've been a crossing-sweeper, and I've likewise been a king! 
I've been a ruddy pirate, though I never went to sea;
I've been a bloomin' belted h'earl—without a pedigree; 

A bishop and a murderer, a scrapper and a saint;
And anything that anybody ever tried to paint. 
A h'artist's model's what I am a queer perfession too;
Though h'gnorhamuses may think you've nothing else to do 

Except to sit upon a "throne" until your feet get tired;
But take my word, to do it right, you 'ave to be h'inspired. 
"Cos why?" you say Why 'cos the model plays the part
Creating all the masterpieces of the painter's h'art!

The h'artist simply gets 'is brush and paints what 'e can see; 
But the model 'as to live the thing—or else where would''e be?
We've got to get what's called, in stoodio talk, "h'atmosphere," 
And let me tell you that's a thing that takes you many a year.

"Ow do I do it?" Well, you see, the characters I pose, 
I thinks their thoughts, and speaks their words, as well as wears their clothes. 
Suppose I'm bein' painted as an Arab in the sand—
I wraps my turbine round me 'ead and then I takes my stand; 

I thinks about the camels, and the palm trees, and the 'eat, 
Till I raise a twenty gallon thirst and blisters on my feet. 
I sings about the shieks until I gives myself catarrh
And then I eats the blinkin' dates from off the calendar. 

Sometimes the work is very 'ard, as well as very queer,
Like when I'm as a chimpanzee 'ung on the chandelier. 
And when I stand for Samson, why! to get the pose all right
I 'ave to 'old a sack of coal to keep my muscles tight. 

O' course I sometimes gets it soft; one job I likes a treat 
Is bein' painted as a copper standin on his beat;
And as an "unemployed" I once laid on my back all day,
And got into the part so well forgot to draw my pay. 

You should 'ave seen me yesterday—you would have done a stare—
Supposed to be a Scotchman, with a kilt and knees all bare. 
I kep' on shoutin' "D'ye ken!" "Hoots! Toots!" and "Hecks the noo!"
And fancied— only fancied— I drank Scotch till I was "foo;" 

And with my loaded bagpipe shot an 'aggis on the rocks;
And then I danced a Highland Fling until I split my socks. 
Historic characters is where I always makes my mark:
I posed last week as Noah—'im that married Joan of Arc. 

I seemed to see my animals come marching two by two, 
The lions roarin' savage, like you 'ears 'em at the Zoo. 
And when the h'artist said he'd done, and told me I could scoot. 
I shouted quite unconscious like, "All change for Arrowroot". 

The job I likes the best of all is when I'm Santa Claus,
Although the great long beaver's rather tirin' to the jaws. 
I always get the chilblains, and my nose it fairly shines, 
And I hears the sound of kids asingin' Christmas Carolines

The other day I 'ad a pose that seemed to suit me prime, 
A dandy—now, we calls 'em knuts—of Queen Victoria's time, 
With clothes like I was married in—I felt a reg'lar don,
So just to give the wife a treat I goes home with 'em on. 

The missus smiles at first, then what she did you'll never guess, 
She goes and finds—from Lord-knows-where—'er faded weddin' dress; 
And standin' there, in that old gown, an' lookin' like a saint, 
She made the sort o' picture then that nobody can paint. 

And the job that I enjoys the wurst—no matter what the pay-
Is posin' as a soldier, like I did the other day. 
I thought about the war, and all them lads and our young Bert, 
The only kid we ever had—and that's what made it 'urt:

And when I got back 'ome that night the missus seemed to see,
Although I never said a word, just what was wrong with me. 
And as we sat there 'and in 'and, 'er lookin' like a saint,
I guess we made a picture no one on earth could paint.  
The end