  IN letters large upon the frame, That visitors might see, The painter placed his humble name: O’Callaghan McGee. And from Beersheba unto Dan, The critics, with a nod, Exclaimed: “This painting Irishman Adores his native sod. “His stout heart’s patriotic flame There’s naught on earth can quell; He takes no wild romantic name To make his pictures sell.” Then poets praise, in sonnets neat, His stroke so bold and free; No parlor wall was thought complete That hadn’t a McGee. All patriots before McGee Threw lavishly their gold; His works in the Academy Were very quickly sold. His “Digging Clams at Barnegat,” His “When the Morning Smiled,” His “Seven Miles from Ararat,” Were purchased in a single day, And lauded as divine. ...... That night as in his atelier The artist sipped his wine, And looked upon his gilded frames, He grinned from ear to ear: “They little think my real name’s V. Stuyvesant De Vere!” Richard Kendall Munkittrick. |
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