Part 1
WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM
BY EUGENE FIELD
Second Book of Tales. Songs and Other Verse. The Holy Cross and Other Tales. The House. The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac. A Little Book of Profitable Tales. A Little Book of Western Verse. Second Book of Verse. Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25. A Little Book of Profitable Tales. Cameo Edition with etched portrait. 16mo, $1.25. Echoes from the Sabine Farm. 4to, $2.00. With Trumpet and Drum. 16mo, $1.00. Love Songs of Childhood. 16mo, $1.00.
Songs of Childhood. Verses by EUGENE FIELD. Music by REGINALD DE KOVEN, and others. Small 4to, $2.00 _net._
With·Trumpet·and·Drum
by
Eugene·Field
New·York Charles·Scribner’s·Sons 1897
Copyright, 1892, by MARY FRENCH FIELD.
TROW DIRECTORY PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY NEW YORK
This volume is made up of verse compiled from my “Little Book of Western Verse,” my “Second Book of Verse,” and the files of the “Chicago Daily News,” the “Youth’s Companion,” and the “Ladies’ Home Journal.”
E.F.
CHICAGO, October 25, 1892.
_WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM_
_With big tin trumpet and little red drum,_ _Marching like soldiers, the children come!_ _It’s this way and that way they circle and file--_ _My! but that music of theirs is fine!_ _This way and that way, and after a while_ _They march straight into this heart of mine!_ _A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb_ _To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!_
_Come on, little people, from cot and from hall--_ _This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!_ _It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,_ _As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;_ _It will rock you away to the dreamland above--_ _Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,_ _And jollier still is it bound to become_ _When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum!_
_So come; though I see not his dear little face_ _And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,_ _I know he were happy to bid me enshrine_ _His memory deep in my heart with your play--_ _Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine_ _Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!_ _And my heart it is lonely--so, little folk, come,_ _March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!_
_EUGENE FIELD._
_Chicago, September 13, 1892._
PAGE
THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 1
KRINKEN 4
THE NAUGHTY DOLL 7
NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT 10
INTRY-MINTRY 12
PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 15
BALOW, MY BONNIE 18
THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 20
LITTLE BLUE PIGEON (Japanese Lullaby) 24
THE LYTTEL BOY 26
TEENY-WEENY 28
NELLIE 31
NORSE LULLABY 33
GRANDMA’S PRAYER 35
SOME TIME 36
THE FIRE-HANGBIRD’S NEST 38
BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 44
WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD (Dutch Lullaby) 46
GOLD AND LOVE FOR DEARIE 49
THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 51
TO A LITTLE BROOK 54
CROODLIN’ DOO[A] 58
LITTLE MISTRESS SANS-MERCI 60
LONG AGO 62
IN THE FIRELIGHT 64
COBBLER AND STORK (Armenian Folk-Lore) 66
“LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY” 70
LIZZIE AND THE BABY 72
AT THE DOOR 74
HUGO’S “CHILD AT PLAY” 76
HI-SPY 77
LITTLE BOY BLUE 78
FATHER’S LETTER 80
JEWISH LULLABY 86
OUR WHIPPINGS 88
THE ARMENIAN MOTHER (Folk-Song) 93
HEIGHO, MY DEARIE 95
TO A USURPER 97
THE BELL-FLOWER TREE 99
FAIRY AND CHILD 102
THE GRANDSIRE 104
HUSHABY, SWEET MY OWN 106
CHILD AND MOTHER 108
MEDIEVAL EVENTIDE SONG 110
ARMENIAN LULLABY 113
CHRISTMAS TREASURES 115
OH, LITTLE CHILD 118
GANDERFEATHER’S GIFT 120
BAMBINO (Sicilian Folk-Song) 123
LITTLE HOMER’S SLATE 125
[A] Cooing Dove.
WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM
THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE
Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? ’Tis a marvel of great renown! It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet (As those who have tasted it say) That good little children have only to eat Of that fruit to be happy next day.
When you’ve got to the tree, you would have a hard time To capture the fruit which I sing; The tree is so tall that no person could climb To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below-- And this is the way you contrive to get at Those sugar-plums tempting you so:
You say but the word to that gingerbread dog And he barks with such terrible zest That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, As her swelling proportions attest. And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around From this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground-- Hurrah for that chocolate cat!
There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes, With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away of the treasure that rains As much as your apron can hold! So come, little child, cuddle closer to me In your dainty white nightcap and gown, And I’ll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.
KRINKEN
Krinken was a little child,-- It was summer when he smiled. Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling, “Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!” But the child heard not the sea.
Krinken on the beach one day Saw a maiden Nis at play; Fair, and very fair, was she, Just a little child was he. “Krinken,” said the maiden Nis, “Let me have a little kiss,-- Just a kiss, and go with me To the summer-lands that be Down within the silver sea.”
Krinken was a little child, By the maiden Nis beguiled; Down into the calling sea With the maiden Nis went he.
But the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,-- Winter where that little child Made sweet summer when he smiled: Though ’tis summer on the sea Where with maiden Nis went he,-- Summer, summer evermore,-- It is winter on the shore, Winter, winter evermore.
Of the summer on the deep Come sweet visions in my sleep; _His_ fair face lifts from the sea, _His_ dear voice calls out to me,-- These my dreams of summer be.
Krinken was a little child, By the maiden Nis beguiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Reached its longing arms to him, Crying, “Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!” But the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,-- Winter, cold and dark and wild; Krinken was a little child,-- It was summer when he smiled; Down he went into the sea, And the winter bides with me. Just a little child was he.
THE NAUGHTY DOLL
My dolly is a dreadful care,-- Her name is Miss Amandy; I dress her up and curl her hair, And feed her taffy candy. Yet heedless of the pleading voice Of her devoted mother, She will not wed her mother’s choice, But says she’ll wed another.
I’d have her wed the china vase,-- There is no Dresden rarer; You might go searching every place And never find a fairer. He is a gentle, pinkish youth,-- Of that there’s no denying; Yet when I speak of him, forsooth, Amandy falls to crying!
She loves the drum--that’s very plain-- And scorns the vase so clever; And weeping, vows she will remain A spinster doll forever! The protestations of the drum I am convinced are hollow; When once distressing times should come, How soon would ruin follow!
Yet all in vain the Dresden boy From yonder mantel woos her; A mania for that vulgar toy, The noisy drum, imbues her! In vain I wheel her to and fro, And reason with her mildly,-- Her waxen tears in torrents flow, Her sawdust heart beats wildly.
I’m sure that when I’m big and tall, And wear long trailing dresses, I sha’n’t encourage beaux at all Till mama acquiesces; Our choice will be a suitor then As pretty as this vase is,-- Oh, how we’ll hate the noisy men With whiskers on their faces!
NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT
The mill goes toiling slowly around With steady and solemn creak, And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak. While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghostlike creep, My little one hears that the old mill sings: “Sleep, little tulip, sleep!”
The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, And, over his pot of beer, The fisher, against the morrow’s dawn, Lustily maketh cheer; He mocks at the winds that caper along From the far-off clamorous deep-- But we--we love their lullaby song Of “Sleep, little tulip, sleep!”
Old dog Fritz in slumber sound Groans of the stony mart-- To-morrow how proudly he’ll trot you round, Hitched to our new milk-cart! And you shall help me blanket the kine And fold the gentle sheep And set the herring a-soak in brine-- But now, little tulip, sleep!
A Dream-One comes to button the eyes That wearily droop and blink, While the old mill buffets the frowning skies And scolds at the stars that wink; Over your face the misty wings Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, And rocking your cradle she softly sings: “Sleep, little tulip, sleep!”
INTRY-MINTRY
Willie and Bess, Georgie and May-- Once, as these children were hard at play, An old man, hoary and tottering, came And watched them playing their pretty game. He seemed to wonder, while standing there, What the meaning thereof could be-- Aha, but the old man yearned to share Of the little children’s innocent glee As they circled around with laugh and shout And told their rime at counting out: “Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, Apple-seed and apple-thorn; Wire, brier, limber, lock, Twelve geese in a flock; Some flew east, some flew west, Some flew over the cuckoo’s nest!”
Willie and Bess, Georgie and May-- Ah, the mirth of that summer-day! ’Twas Father Time who had come to share The innocent joy of those children there; He learned betimes the game they played And into their sport with them went he-- How _could_ the children have been afraid, Since little they recked whom he might be? They laughed to hear old Father Time Mumbling that curious nonsense rime Of “Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, Apple-seed and apple-thorn; Wire, brier, limber, lock, Twelve geese in a flock; Some flew east, some flew west, Some flew over the cuckoo’s nest!”
Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, And joy of summer--where are they? The grim old man still standeth near Crooning the song of a far-off year; And into the winter I come alone, Cheered by that mournful requiem, Soothed by the dolorous monotone That shall count me off as it counted them-- The solemn voice of old Father Time Chanting the homely nursery rime He learned of the children a summer morn When, with “apple-seed and apple-thorn,” Life was full of the dulcet cheer That bringeth the grace of heaven anear-- The sound of the little ones hard at play-- Willie and Bess, Georgie and May.
PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE
All day long they come and go-- Pittypat and Tippytoe; Footprints up and down the hall, Playthings scattered on the floor, Finger-marks along the wall, Tell-tale smudges on the door-- By these presents you shall know Pittypat and Tippytoe.
How they riot at their play! And a dozen times a day In they troop, demanding bread-- Only buttered bread will do, And that butter must be spread Inches thick with sugar too! And I never can say “No, Pittypat and Tippytoe!”
Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; For (I much regret to say) Tippytoe and Pittypat Sometimes interrupt their play With an internecine spat; Fie, for shame! to quarrel so-- Pittypat and Tippytoe!
Oh the thousand worrying things Every day recurrent brings! Hands to scrub and hair to brush, Search for playthings gone amiss, Many a wee complaint to hush, Many a little bump to kiss; Life seems one vain, fleeting show To Pittypat and Tippytoe!
And when day is at an end, There are little duds to mend: Little frocks are strangely torn, Little shoes great holes reveal, Little hose, but one day worn, Rudely yawn at toe and heel! Who but _you_ could work such woe, Pittypat and Tippytoe?
But when comes this thought to me: “Some there are that childless be,” Stealing to their little beds, With a love I cannot speak, Tenderly I stroke their heads-- Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. God help those who do not know A Pittypat or Tippytoe!
On the floor and down the hall, Rudely smutched upon the wall, There are proofs in every kind Of the havoc they have wrought, And upon my heart you’d find Just such trade-marks, if you sought; Oh, how glad I am ’tis so, Pittypat and Tippytoe!
BALOW, MY BONNIE
Hush, bonnie, dinna greit; Moder will rocke her sweete,-- Balow, my boy! When that his toile ben done, Daddie will come anone,-- Hush thee, my lyttel one; Balow, my boy!
Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce Fayries will come to daunce,-- Balow, my boy! Oft hath thy moder seene Moonlight and mirkland queene Daunce on thy slumbering een,-- Balow, my boy!
Then droned a bomblebee Saftly this songe to thee: “Balow, my boy!”
And a wee heather bell, Pluckt from a fayry dell, Chimed thee this rune hersell: “Balow, my boy!”
Soe, bonnie, dinna greit; Moder doth rock her sweete,-- Balow, my boy! Give mee thy lyttel hand, Moder will hold it and Lead thee to balow land,-- Balow, my boy!
THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN
The Hawthorne children--seven in all-- Are famous friends of mine, And with what pleasure I recall How, years ago, one gloomy fall, I took a tedious railway line And journeyed by slow stages down Unto that sleepy seaport town (Albeit one worth seeing), Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, And Beatrix and Gwendolen And she that was the baby then-- These famous seven, as aforesaid, Lived, moved, and had their being.
The Hawthorne children gave me such A welcome by the sea, That the eight of us were soon in touch, And though their mother marveled much, Happy as larks were we! Egad I was a boy again With Henry, John, and Gwendolen! And, oh! the funny capers I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! The pranks we heedless children played, The deafening, awful noise we made-- ’Twould shock my family, if they read About it in the papers!
The Hawthorne children all were smart; The girls, as I recall, Had comprehended every art Appealing to the head and heart, The boys were gifted, all; ’Twas Hildegarde who showed me how To hitch the horse and milk a cow And cook the best of suppers; With Beatrix upon the sands I sprinted daily, and was beat, While Henry stumped me to the feat Of walking round upon my hands Instead of on my “uppers.”
The Hawthorne children liked me best Of evenings, after tea; For then, by general request, I spun them yarns about the west-- And _all_ involving Me! I represented how I’d slain The bison on the gore-smeared plain, And divers tales of wonder I told of how I’d fought and bled In Injun scrimmages galore, Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth “No more!” And packed her darlings off to bed To dream of blood and thunder!
They must have changed a deal since then: The misses tall and fair And those three lusty, handsome men, Would they be girls and boys again Were I to happen there, Down in that spot beside the sea Where we made such tumultuous glee In dull autumnal weather? Ah me! the years go swiftly by, And yet how fondly I recall The week when we were children all-- Dear Hawthorne children, you and I-- Just eight of us, together!
LITTLE BLUE PIGEON
Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings-- Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging-- Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star-- Silvery star with a tinkling song; To the soft dew falling I hear it calling-- Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes-- Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; All silently creeping, it asks: “Is he sleeping-- Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”
Up from the sea there floats the sob Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning-- Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings-- Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging-- Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
THE LYTTEL BOY
Some time there ben a lyttel boy That wolde not renne and play, And helpless like that little tyke Ben allwais in the way. “Goe, make you merrie with the rest,” His weary moder cried; But with a frown he catcht her gown And hong untill her side.
That boy did love his moder well, Which spake him faire, I ween; He loved to stand and hold her hand And ken her with his een; His cosset bleated in the croft, His toys unheeded lay,-- He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe, Ben allwais in the way.
Godde loveth children and doth gird His throne with soche as these, And he doth smile in plaisaunce while They cluster at his knees; And some time, when he looked on earth And watched the bairns at play, He kenned with joy a lyttel boy Ben allwais in the way.
And then a moder felt her heart How that it ben to-torne, She kissed eche day till she ben gray The shoon he use to worn; No bairn let hold untill her gown Nor played upon the floore,-- Godde’s was the joy; a lyttel boy Ben in the way no more!
TEENY-WEENY
Every evening, after tea, Teeny-Weeny comes to me, And, astride my willing knee, Plies his lash and rides away; Though that palfrey, all too spare, Finds his burden hard to bear, Teeny-Weeny doesn’t care; He commands, and I obey!
First it’s trot, and gallop then; Now it’s back to trot again; Teeny-Weeny likes it when He is riding fierce and fast. Then his dark eyes brighter grow And his cheeks are all aglow: “More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!” Till the horse breaks down at last.
Oh, the strange and lovely sights Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, As he makes those famous flights On that wondrous horse of his! Oftentimes before he knows, Wearylike his eyelids close, And, still smiling, off he goes Where the land of By-low is.
There he sees the folk of fay Hard at ring-a-rosie play, And he hears those fairies say: “Come, let’s chase him to and fro!” But, with a defiant shout, Teeny puts that host to rout; Of this tale I make no doubt, Every night he tells it so.
So I feel a tender pride In my boy who dares to ride That fierce horse of his astride, Off into those misty lands; And as on my breast he lies, Dreaming in that wondrous wise, I caress his folded eyes, Pat his little dimpled hands.
On a time he went away, Just a little while to stay, And I’m not ashamed to say I was very lonely then; Life without him was so sad, You can fancy I was glad And made merry when I had Teeny-Weeny back again!
So of evenings, after tea, When he toddles up to me And goes tugging at my knee. You should hear his palfrey neigh! You should see him prance and shy, When, with an exulting cry, Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, Plies his lash and rides away!
NELLIE
His listening soul hears no echo of battle, No pæan of triumph nor welcome of fame; But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle, And softly he murmurs her idolized name. And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee; He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing-- And Nellie is coming from over the sea.