Horace to His Patron

Maecenas, you're of noble line--
(Of which the proof convincing
Is that you buy me all my wine
Without so much as wincing.)

To different men of different minds
Come different kinds of pleasure;
There's Marshall Field--what joy he finds
In shears and cloth-yard measure!

With joy Prof. Swing is filled
While preaching godly sermons;
With bliss is Hobart Taylor thrilled
When he is leading germans.

While Uncle Joe Medill prefers
To run a daily paper,
To Walter Gresham it occurs
That law's the proper caper.

With comedy a winning card,
How blithe is Richard Hooley;
Per contra, making soap and lard,
Rejoices Fairbank duly.

While Armour in the sugar ham
His summum bonum reaches,
MacVeagh's as happy as a clam
In canning pears and peaches.

Let Farwell glory in the fray
Which party hate increases--
His son-in-law delights to play
Gavottes and such like pieces.

So each betakes him to his task--
So each his hobby nurses--
While I--well, all the boon I ask
Is leave to write my verses.

Give, give that precious boon to me
And I shall envy no man;
If not the noblest I shall be
At least the happiest Roman!