“The Poems of Eugene Field”
(Somewhat in the Fieldian manner.)
No gold-reguerdoned poet I to puff a book for pelf,
For even I am forced to buy the books I praise myself,
Albeit there be those that think that when I laud a tome
Its publisher invites me in to make myself at home.
Could you but see the monthly bills that stare me in the face,
You readily would see that such is not the happy case;
Yet once again I toot the horn, again the pen I wield
To advertise the Poetry of Eugene Field.
For even I am forced to buy the books I praise myself,
Albeit there be those that think that when I laud a tome
Its publisher invites me in to make myself at home.
Could you but see the monthly bills that stare me in the face,
You readily would see that such is not the happy case;
Yet once again I toot the horn, again the pen I wield
To advertise the Poetry of Eugene Field.
Not Swinburne with his lovely lines that lilt their way along,
Not Byron’s burning poetry, nor Wordsworth’s simple song,
Not Kipling’s virile balladry, nor Marlowe’s mighty line,
Not Tennyson’s pellucid rhyme, nor Shelley’s odes divine,
Not Dobson’s dainty triolets, nor Chaucer’s sturdy verse;
Not Southey, Calverley nor Hood, nor eke Sir Thomas Perc.,
To none of these I bring the bay, to none the laurel yield—
My choice is for the Poetry of Eugene Field.
Not Byron’s burning poetry, nor Wordsworth’s simple song,
Not Kipling’s virile balladry, nor Marlowe’s mighty line,
Not Tennyson’s pellucid rhyme, nor Shelley’s odes divine,
Not Dobson’s dainty triolets, nor Chaucer’s sturdy verse;
Not Southey, Calverley nor Hood, nor eke Sir Thomas Perc.,
To none of these I bring the bay, to none the laurel yield—
My choice is for the Poetry of Eugene Field.
How varied are the poem-themes in which that book abounds!
The Apple Pies, the Gosling Stews, the Joys Unknown to Lowndes!
And oh, how that dyspeptic apotheosized the cooks
And longed for roast-beef very rare, but even rarer books!
And wit ye well, how hee ben fain to rede of ony knight
Wyth mace and hauberk, helm and glaive, and mickle valoure dight;
While in the odes of Q. H. F. his knowledge he revealed—
Good sooth, he was a busy bard, was Old Gene Field.
The Apple Pies, the Gosling Stews, the Joys Unknown to Lowndes!
And oh, how that dyspeptic apotheosized the cooks
And longed for roast-beef very rare, but even rarer books!
And wit ye well, how hee ben fain to rede of ony knight
Wyth mace and hauberk, helm and glaive, and mickle valoure dight;
While in the odes of Q. H. F. his knowledge he revealed—
Good sooth, he was a busy bard, was Old Gene Field.
Exalted be the memory of him with whom we've smiled,
But blessed thrice the name of him that sang a little child.
Let those who will declare the Gentle Poet insincere—
But blessed thrice the name of him that sang a little child.
Let those who will declare the Gentle Poet insincere—
I doubt it, like the Carpenter, and check a rising tear.
The which is why I celebrate that poet and his rhyme
And hint it were a goodly gift to give at Christmas time—
Two dollars net, Charles Scribner’s Sons—Why should it be concealed?
Go, buy that brimming volume by Eugene Field!
The which is why I celebrate that poet and his rhyme
And hint it were a goodly gift to give at Christmas time—
Two dollars net, Charles Scribner’s Sons—Why should it be concealed?
Go, buy that brimming volume by Eugene Field!