Part 1
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HOOSIER LYRICS
BY
EUGENE FIELD
AUTHOR OF THE CLINK OF THE ICE, JOHN SMITH, U. S. A., IN WINK-A-WAY-LAND, ETC.
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY CHICAGO, ILL.
SELECTED WORKS _of_ EUGENE FIELD
_Uniform with this volume_
The Clink of the Ice Hoosier Lyrics In Wink-a-Way Land John Smith, U. S. A.
_Four volumes, boxed, $3.00_
_Single volumes, 75 cents, postpaid_
M. A. DONOHUE & CO. 701-727 S. DEARBORN ST. CHICAGO
Copyright, 1905 M. A. Donohue & Co.
INTRODUCTION.
From whatever point of view the character of Eugene Field is seen, genius--rare and quaint presents itself in childlike simplicity. That he was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimination, all will admit. He was a humorist as delicate and fanciful as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain, Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or Bret Harte in their happiest moods. Within him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked in any direction, and from which he could, at will, extract that which his imagination saw and felt most. That he occasionally left the child-world, in which he longed to linger, to wander among the older children of men, where intuitively the hungry listener follows him into his Temple of Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him not, can while away the moments imbibing the genius of his imagination in the poetry and prose here presented.
Though never possessing an intimate acquaintanceship with Field, owing largely to the disparity in our ages, still there existed a bond of friendliness that renders my good opinion of him in a measure trustworthy. Born in the same city, both students in the same college, engaged at various times in newspaper work both in St. Louis and Chicago, residents of the same ward, with many mutual friends, it is not surprising that I am able to say of him that "the world is better off that he lived, not in gold and silver or precious jewels, but in the bestowal of priceless truths, of which the possessor of this book becomes a benefactor of no mean share of his estate."
Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of childhood or the poems that lend mirth to the out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome this unique collection of his choicest wit and humor.
CHARLES WALTER Brown.
Chicago, January, 1905.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
Hoosier Lyrics Paraphrased 9
Gettin' On 14
Minnie Lee 16
Answer to Minnie Lee 17
Lizzie 18
Our Lady of the Mine 20
Penn-Yan Bill 25
Ed 31
How Salty Win Out 33
His Queen 36
Answer to His Queen 37
Alaskan Balladry--Skans in Love 38
The Biggest Fish 39
Bonnie Jim Campbell 42
Lyman, Frederick and Jim 44
A Wail 46
Clendenin's Lament 48
On the Wedding of G. C. 49
To G. C. 51
To Dr. F. W. R. 52
Horace's Ode to "Lydia" Roche 54
A Paraphrase, Circa 1715 56
A Paraphrase, Ostensibly by Dr. I. W. 57
Horace I., 27 58
Heine's "Widow or Daughter" 59
Horace II., 20 60
Horace's Spring Poem, Odes I., 4 62
Horace to Ligurine, Odes IV., 10 64
Horace on His Muscle, Epode VI. 65
Horace to Maecenas, Odes III., 29 66
Horace in Love Again, Epode XI. 68
"Good-By--God Bless You!" 70
Horace, Epode XIV. 72
Horace I., 23 74
A Paraphrase 75
A Paraphrase by Chaucer 76
Horace I., 5 77
Horace I., 20 78
Envoy 78
Horace II., 7 79
Horace I., 11 81
Horace I., 13 82
Horace IV., 1 83
Horace to His Patron 85
The "Ars Poetica" of Horace--XVIII. 87
Horace I., 34 88
Horace I., 33 89
The "Ars Poetica" of Horace I. 91
The Great Journalist in Spain 93
Reid, the Candidate 95
A Valentine 97
Kissing-Time 98
The Fifth of July 100
Picnic-Time 101
The Romance of a Watch 103
Our Baby 104
The Color that Suits Me Best 106
How to "Fill" 108
Politics in 1888 109
The Baseball Score 110
Chicago Newspaper Life 112
The Mighty West 114
April 116
Report of the Baseball Game 118
The Rose 120
Kansas City vs. Detroit 121
Me and Bilkammle 122
To the Detroit Baseball Club 124
A Ballad of Ancient Oaths 125
An Old Song Revised 128
The Grateful Patient 130
The Beginning and the End 131
Clare Market 133
Uncle Ephraim 135
Thirty-Nine 138
Horace I., 18 141
Three Rineland Drinking Songs 143
The Three Tailors 147
Morning Hymn 150
Doctors 151
Ben Apfelgarten 155
In Holland 158
HOOSIER LYRICS PARAPHRASED.
We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more, Supposin' we wuz goin' to get the nominashin, shore; For Col. New assured us (in that noospaper o' his) That we cud hev the airth, if we'd only tend to biz. But here we've been a-slavin' more like bosses than like men To diskiver that the people do not hanker arter Ben; It _is_ fur Jeems G. Blaine an' _not_ for Harrison they shout-- And the gobble-uns 'el git us Ef we Don't Watch Out!
* * * * *
When I think of the fate that is waiting for Ben, I pine for the peace of my childhood again; I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul And hop off once more in the old swimmin' hole!
* * * * *
The world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew (Which is another word for soup) that drips for me and you.
* * * * *
"Little Benjy! Little Benjy!" chirps the robin in the tree; "Little Benjy!" sighs the clover, "Little Benjy!" moans the bee; "Little Benjy! Little Benjy!" murmurs John C. New, A-stroking down the whiskers which the winds have whistled through.
* * * * *
Looks jest like his grampa, who's dead these many years-- He wears the hat his grampa wore, pulled down below his ears; We'd like to have him four years more, but if he cannot stay-- Nothin' to say, good people; nothin' at all to say!
* * * * *
There, little Ben, don't cry! They have busted your boom, I know; And the second term For which you squirm Has gone where good niggers go! But Blaine is safe, and the goose hangs high-- There, little Ben, don't cry!
* * * * *
Mabbe we'll git even for this unexpected shock, When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock!
* * * * *
Oh, the newspaper man! He works for paw; He's the liveliest critter 'at ever you saw; With whiskers 'at reach f'om his eyes to his throat. He knows how to wheedle and rivet a vote; He wunst wuz a consul 'way over the sea-- But never again a consul he'll be! He come back f'om Lon'on one mornin' in May-- He come back for bizness, an' here he will stay-- Ain't he a awful slick newspaper man? A newspaper, newspaper, newspaper man!
* * * * *
You kin talk about yer cities where the politicians meet-- You kin talk about yer cities where a decent man gits beat; With the general run o' human kind I beg to disagree-- The little town of Tailholt is good enough f'r me!
Chicago was a pleasant town in eighteen-eighty-eight, And I have lived in Washington long time in splendid state; But all the present prospects are that after ninety-three The little town o' Tailholt 'll be good enough f'r me!
* * * * *
"I wunst lived in Indiany," said a consul, gaunt and grim, As most of us Blaine delegates wuz kind o' guyin' him; "I wunst lived in Indiany, and my views wuz widely read, Fur I run a daily paper w'ich 'Lije Halford edited; But since I've been away f'm home, my paper (seems to me) Ain't nearly such a inflooence ez wot it used to be; So, havin' done with consulin', I'm goin' to make a break Towards making of a paper like the one I used to make."
* * * * *
Think, if you kin, of his term mos' through, An' that ol' man wantin' a secon' term, too; Picture him bendin' over the form Of his consul-gineril, stanch an' grim, Who has stood the brunt of that jimblain storm-- An' that ol' man jest wrapt up in him! An' the consul-gineril, with eyes all bleared An' a haunted look in his ashen beard, Kind o' gaspin' a feeble way-- But soothed to hear the ol' man say In a meaning tone (as one well may When words are handy and ----'s to pay): "Good-by, John; take care of yo'_self_!"
GETTIN' ON.
When I wuz somewhat younger, I wuz reckoned purty gay-- I had my fling at everything In a rollickin', coltish way, But times have strangely altered Since sixty years ago-- This age of steam an' things don't seem Like the age I used to know, Your modern innovations Don't suit me, I confess, As did the ways of the good ol' days-- But I'm gettin' on, I guess.
I set on the piazza An' hitch around with the sun-- Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, Waitin' till school is done, An' then I tell the children The things I done in youth, An' near as I can (as a venerable man) I stick to the honest truth! But the looks of them 'at listen Seems sometimes to express The remote idee that I'm gone--you see! An' I am gettin' on, I guess.
I get up in the mornin', An' nothin' else to do, Before the rest are up and dressed I read the papers through; I hang 'round with the women All day an' hear 'em talk, An' while they sew or knit I show The baby how to walk; An' somehow, I feel sorry When they put away his dress An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's)-- I'm gettin' on, I guess!
Sometimes, with twilight round me, I see (or seem to see) A distant shore where friends of yore Linger and watch for me; Sometimes I've heered 'em callin' So tenderlike 'nd low That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, Or an echo of long ago; An' sometimes on my forehead There falls a soft caress, Or the touch of a hand--you understand-- I'm gettin' on, I guess.
MINNIE LEE.
Writing from an Indiana town a young woman asks: "Is the enclosed poem worth anything?"
We find that the poem is as follows:
She has left us, our own darling-- And we never more shall see Here on earth our dearly loved one-- God has taken Minnie Lee.
Her heart was full of goodness And her face was fair to see And her life was full of beauty-- How we miss our Minnie Lee!
But her work on earth is over And her spirit now is free She has gone to live in heaven-- Shall we weep for Minnie Lee?
Would we call our angel darling Back again across the sea? No! but sometime up in heaven We will meet loved Minnie Lee.
To the question as to whether this poem is worth anything we chose to answer in verse as follows:
Sweet poetess, your poetry Is bad as bad can be, And yet we heartily deplore The death of Minnie Lee.
It would have pleased us better If, in His wisdom, He Had taken you, sweet poetess, Instead of Minnie Lee.
Your turn will come, however, And swift and sure 'twill be If you continue sending Your rhymes on Minnie Lee.
From this we hope you will gather A dim surmise that we Don't take much stock in poems Concerning Minnie Lee.
LIZZIE.
I wonder ef all wimmin air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters an' concerts where Is things the papers talk about. Do other wimmin fret and stew Like they wuz bein' crucified-- Frettin' a show or a concert through, With wonderin' ef the baby cried?
Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there To see that everything is right, Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care Ain't good enuf f'r baby, quite; Yet what am I to answer when She kind uv fidgets at my side, An' every now and then; "I wonder ef the baby cried?"
Seems like she seen two little eyes A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile-- Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries Uv one she thinks uv all the while; An' she's sorry that she come, 'An' though she allus tries to hide The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum Than wonder ef the baby cried.
Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest. There never was a little tyke, But that his mother loved him best, And nex' to bein' what I be-- The husband of my gentle bride-- I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.
OUR LADY OF THE MINE.
The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv, And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv; 'Twuz in the year of sixty-nine--somewhere along in summer-- There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer; His name wuz Silas Pettibone--an artist by perfession, With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession; He told us, by our leave, he'd kind uv like to make some sketches Uv the snowy peaks, 'nd the foamin' crick, 'nd the distant mountain stretches; "You're welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed to us A waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-_floo_-us.
All through the summer Pettibone kep' busy at his sketchin'-- At daybreak, off for Eagle Pass, and home at nightfall, fetchin' That everlastin' book uv his with spider lines all through it-- Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there warn't no meanin' to it-- "God durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif'less hand is sot at A-drawin' hills that's full of quartz that's pinin' to be got at!" "Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin' gratifies ye, But one uv these fine times, I'll show ye sumthin' will surprise ye!" The which remark led us to think--although he didn't say it-- That Pettibone wuz owin' us a gredge 'nd meant to pay it.
One evenin' as we sat around the restauraw de Casey, A-singin' songs 'nd tellin' yarns the which wuz sumwhat racy, In come that feller Pettibone 'nd sez: "With your permission I'd like to put a picture I have made on exhibition." He sot the picture on the bar 'nd drew aside its curtain, Sayin': "I recken you'll allow as how _that's_ art, f'r certain!" And then we looked, with jaws agape, but nary word wuz spoken, And f'r a likely spell the charm uv silence wuz unbroken-- Till presently, as in a dream, remarked Three-Fingered Hoover: "Onless I am mistaken, this is Pettibone's shef doover!" It wuz a face, a human face--a woman's, fair 'nd tender, Sot gracefully upon a neck white as a swan's, and slender; The hair wuz kind of sunny, 'nd the eyes wuz sort uv dreamy, The mouth wuz half a-smilin', 'nd the cheeks wuz soft 'nd creamy; It seemed like she wuz lookin' off into the west out yonder, And seemed like, while she looked, we saw her eyes grow softer, fonder-- Like, lookin' off into the west where mountain mists wuz fallin', She saw the face she longed to see and heerd his voice a-callin'; "Hooray!" we cried; "a woman in the camp uv Blue Horizon-- Step right up, Colonel Pettibone, 'nd nominate your pizen!"
A curious situation--one deservin' uv your pity-- No human, livin' female thing this side of Denver City! But jest a lot uv husky men that lived on sand 'nd bitters-- Do you wonder that that woman's face consoled the lonesome critters? And not a one but what it served in some way to remind him Of a mother or a sister or a sweetheart left behind him-- And some looked back on happier days and saw the old-time faces And heerd the dear familiar sounds in old familiar places-- A gracious touch of home--"Look here," sez Hoover, "ever'body Quit thinkin' 'nd perceed at oncet to name his favorite toddy!"
It wuzn't long afore the news had spread the country over, And miners come a-flockin' in like honey bees to clover; It kind uv did 'em good they said, to feast their hungry eyes on That picture uv Our Lady in the camp uv Blue Horizon. But one mean cuss from Nigger Crick passed criticisms on 'er-- Leastwise we overheerd him call her Pettibone's madonner, The which we did not take to be respectful to a lady-- So we hung him in a quiet spot that wuz cool 'nd dry 'nd shady; Which same might not have been good law, but it _wuz_ the right maneuver To give the critics due respect for Pettibone's shef doover.
Gone is the camp--yes, years ago, the Blue Horizon busted, And every mother's son uv us got up one day 'nd dusted, While Pettibone perceeded east with wealth in his possession And went to Yurrup, as I heerd, to study his perfession; So, like as not, you'll find him now a-paintin' heads 'nd faces At Venus, Billy Florence and the like I-talyun places-- But no such face he'll paint again as at old Blue Horizon, For I'll allow no sweeter face no human soul sot eyes on; And when the critics talk so grand uv Paris 'nd the loover, I say: "Oh, but you orter seen the Pettibone shef doover!"
PENN-YAN BILL.
I.
In gallus old Kentucky, where the grass is very blue, Where the liquor is the smoothest and the girls are fair and true, Where the crop of he-gawd gentlemen is full of heart and sand, And the stock of four-time winners is the finest in the land; Where the democratic party in bourbon hardihood For more than half a century unterrified has stood, Where nod the black-eyed Susans to the prattle of the rill-- There--there befell the wooing of Penn-Yan Bill.
II.
Down yonder in the cottage that is nestling in the shade Of the walnut trees that seem to love that quiet little glade Abides a pretty maiden of the bonny name of Sue-- As pretty as the black-eyed flow'rs and quite as modest, too; And lovers came there by the score, of every age and kind, But not a one (the story goes) was quite to Susie's mind. Their sighs, their protestations, and their pleadings made her ill-- Till at once upon the scene hove Penn-Yan Bill.
III.
He came from old Montana and he rode a broncho mare, He had a rather howd'y'do and rough-and-tumble air; His trousers were of buckskin and his coat of furry stuff-- His hat was drab of color and its brim was wide enough; Upon each leg a stalwart boot reached just above the knee, And in the belt about his waist his weepons carried he; A rather strapping lover for our little Susie--still, _She_ was _his_ choice and _he_ was _hers_, was Penn-Yan Bill.
IV.
We wonder that the ivy seeks out the oaken tree, And twines her tendrils round him, though scarred and gnarled he be; We wonder that a gentle girl, unused to worldly cares, Should choose a man whose life has been a constant scrap with bears; Ah, 'tis the nature of the vine, and of the maiden, too-- So when the bold Montana boy came from his lair to woo, The fair Kentucky blossom felt all her heartstrings thrill Responsive to the purring of Penn-Yan Bill.
V.
He told her of his cabin in the mountains far away, Of the catamount that howls by night, the wolf that yawps by day; He told her of the grizzly with the automatic jaw, He told her of the Injun who devours his victims raw; Of the jayhawk with his tawdry crest and whiskers in his throat, Of the great gosh-awful sarpent and the Rocky mountain goat. A book as big as Shakespeare's or as Webster's you could fill With the yarns that emanated from Penn-Yan Bill!
VI.
Lo, as these mighty prodigies the westerner relates, Her pretty mouth falls wide agape--her eyes get big as plates; And when he speaks of varmints that in the Rockies grow She shudders and she clings to him and timidly cries "Oh!" And then says he: "Dear Susie, I'll tell you what to do-- You be my wife, and none of these 'ere things dare pester you!" And she? She answers, clinging close and trembling yet: "I will." And then he gives her one big kiss, does Penn-Yan Bill.
VII.
Avaunt, ye poet lovers, with your wishywashy lays! Avaunt, ye solemn pedants, with your musty, bookish ways! Avaunt, ye smurking dandies who air your etiquette Upon the gold your fathers worked so long and hard to get! How empty is your nothingness beside the sturdy tales Which mountaineers delight to tell of border hills and vales-- Of snaix that crawl, of beasts that yowl, of birds that flap and trill In the wild egregious altitude of Penn-Yan Bill.
VIII.
Why, over all these mountain peaks his honest feet have trod-- So high above the rest of us he seemed to walk with God; He's breathed the breath of heaven, as it floated, pure and free, From the everlasting snow-caps to the mighty western sea; And he's heard that awful silence which thunders in the ear: "There is a great Jehovah, and His biding place is here!" These--these solemn voices and these the sights that thrill In the far-away Montana of Penn-Yan Bill.
IX.
Of course she had to love him, for it was her nature to; And she'll wed him in the summer, if all we hear be true. The blue grass will be waving in that cool Kentucky glade Where the black-eyed Susans cluster in the pleasant walnut shade-- Where the doves make mournful music and the locust trills a song To the brook that through the pasture scampers merrily along; And speechless pride and rapture ineffable shall fill The beatific bosom of Penn-Yan Bill!
ED.