Anacreontics (Benson, 1872)/To J. T. J.
TO J. T. J.
(FOR NOT ATTENDING HIS ARTISTS' RECEPTION.)
(April, 12, 1866.)
I AM lying, Johnston, lying—not like "Gemmen of the Press,"
Although in 'Sheets' I'm lying—that's because I cannot dress.
I have got the Rheumatism very badly in one leg,
Worse than any other ism, and I cannot move a peg,
And I lie and groan in anguish, and can hardly even read,
And my shattered spirits languish, and I'm very
weak indeed.
I am lying, Johnston, lying—so I cannot walk to thee,
To the glorious punchifying, where the merry fellows be;
Where the painters all are tippling the most picturesque of punches;
In its gentle eddy rippling through the jolliest of lunches;
Where those tales of Bayard Taylor's with Herodotus compete,
And Cranch will sing the Sailors who their comrade tried to eat.
How I wonder what you fellows think or speak of me to-day!
Will it worry Dr. Bellows if Carl Benson is away,
Will it make Dick Hunt less jolly, render Bierstadt's speech more slow,
Will our Jack look melancholy 'cause his cousin cannot show?'
Will Leutze say "poor fellow!" how I wish we had him here?"
Or the eye of Beard grow mellow with a sympathetic tear?
Eugene Benson's up the country, to enjoy what he calls Spring,
Though I think it great effront'ry here to speak of such a thing,
We have got no Spring (poor devils) in this wretched Western clime,
When the Summer's hottest revels follow close on Winter's rime;
If we had a Spring like Europe, I should not be on my back,
With exceedingly obscure hope of soon getting up, alack!
Ancient Greeks and Romans uséd at their banquets to recline;
And the fashion then amuséd; but their taste is nowise mine;
And I've heard that Fanny Kemble lay upon her back at sea,
And made all the stewards tremble by her orders for her tea;
But this feeding on your back—'tis for me a stupid way,
Rather than make it a practice, I'd read Titcomb every day.
Oh, ye happy men with two legs, when the luscious bowl ye share,
Since I cannot get me new legs, think I am in spirit there!
And if any High art lover, to his Mistress crown the brim,
Let my aspirations hover round and hallow it for him.
[I caught this last idea from a party named Tom Moore,
Who is sometimes rather freer than the parsons can endure.]