Edgar Albert Guest - Poems
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Classic Poetry Series Edgar Albert Guest - poems - Publication Date: 2012 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Edgar Albert Guest(20 August 1881 - 5 August 1959) Edgar Allen Guest also known as Eddie Guest was a prolific English-born American poet who was popular in the first half of the 20th century and became known as the People's Poet. Eddie Guest was born in Birmingham, England in 1881, moving to Michigan USA as a young child, it was here he was educated. In 1895, the year before Henry Ford took his first ride in a motor carriage, Eddie Guest signed on with the Free Press as a 13-year-old office boy. He stayed for 60 years. In those six decades, Detroit underwent half a dozen identity changes, but Eddie Guest became a steadfast character on the changing scene. Three years after he joined the Free Press, Guest became a cub reporter. He quickly worked his way through the labor beat -- a much less consequential beat than it is today -- the waterfront beat and the police beat, where he worked "the dog watch" -- 3 p.m. to 3 a.m. By the end of that year -- the year he should have been completing high school - - Guest had a reputation as a scrappy reporter in a competitive town. It did not occur to Guest to write in verse until late in 1898 when he was working as assistant exchange editor. It was his job to cull timeless items from the newspapers with which the Free Press exchanged papers for use as fillers. Many of the items were verses. Guest figured he might just as well write verse as clip it and submitted one of his own, a dialect verse, to Sunday editor Arthur Mosley. The Free Press was choosy about publishing the literary efforts of staff members and Guest, a 17-year-old dropout, might have been seen as something of an upstart. But Mosley decided to publish the verse, His verse ran on Dec. 11, 1898. More contributions of verse and observations led to a weekly column, "Blue Monday Chat," and then a daily column, "Breakfast Table Chat." Verse had always been part of Guest's writing, but he had more or less followed the workaday road of many newsmen for 10 years. In 1908, standing in the rain as the solitary mourner for one such journalist who had long since been forgotten and relegated to the newspaper's morgue, Guest resolved to escape that fate by becoming a specialist. From that day forward, nearly all of his writing was in www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 meter and rhyme. And readers loved it. They asked where they could find collections of his folksy verses. Guest talked it over his younger brother Harry, a typesetter, and they bought a case of type. They were in the book publishing business. After supper, Harry climbed the stairs to the attic to set Eddie's poetry. Harry could set as many as eight pages -- provided the verses didn't have too many "e's" in them -- before he had to print what he had and break up the forms for eight more pages. They printed 800 copies of a 136-page book, "Home Rhymes." Two years later, in 1911 and still working in eight-page morsels, they printed "Just Glad Things," but upped the press order to 1,500 copies. They escaped the limits of their type case with the third book, published in 1914, but Guest had some misgivings about the large press run -- 3,500 copies. It sold out in two Christmases. More books followed, and before he was done Guest had filled more than 20. Sales ran into the millions and his most popular collection, "It Takes a Heap o' Livin'," sold more than a million copies by itself. Guest's verses, originally clipped by exchange editors at other papers, went into syndication and he was carried by more than 300 newspapers. His popularity led to one of early radios longest-running radio shows, appearances on television, in Hollywood and in banquet halls and meeting rooms from coast to coast. But Edgar A. Guest remained, at heart and in fact, a newspaper man. In 1939, he told "Editor & Publisher," "I've never been late with my copy and I've never missed an edition. And that's seven days a week." For more than 30 years, there was not a day that the Free Press went to press without Guest's verse on its pages. He worked for the Free Press for more than six decades. Thousands of Detroiters were born, grew up and had children of their own before a Free Press ever arrived at their homes without Guest's gentle human touch. When Guest died in 1959, he was buried in Detroit's Woodlawn Cemetery. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 ‘erbert's H'Opinion H'if a yankee cutthroat ‘acks ‘is poor hold mother, H'it tykes a year to pack ‘im h'off to jyle; ‘E can h'always dig h'up some h'excuse or hotter To keep your justice creepin' like a snyle. But h'in H'England, h'if a bloke gets h'into trouble, To the pen h'in arf a jiffy ‘e will roam; H'if ‘e mykes a fight ‘is punishment will double We do things so muc better h'over ‘ome. H'if a bloomin' Yankee starts to build a dwelling ‘E slaps h'it h'up without a bit h'of care, In ‘arf the time h'it tykes me in the telling, ‘E ‘as the chimney pot h'up in the h'air. But h'in H'England ‘ouses h'always last forever, We build ‘em right, from cellar to dome; H'although you bloomin' Yankees think you're clever, We do things so much better h'over ‘ome. ‘Ere h'it's always ‘elter-skelter, rush and bustle, H'and h'it's pell-mell h'into h'everthing you do; You h'even teach your children ‘ow to ‘ustle Your meals you never tyke the time to chew. But h'in H'England, when h'it's tea time, we stop working, H'an H'I wish that H'I was back h'across the foam, H'in my ‘ead the notoin still h'is plynely lurking, We do things so much better h'over ‘ome. Edgar Albert Guest www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 A Baby's Love A BABY is the best to love, She always smiles when you draw near, Though ugly you may be of face, No handsomer may interfere And win her heart away from you, Despite your faults she's always true; And though you be unknown to fame, A baby's love remains the same. A baby's eyes are always bright, A baby's lips are always red, And, O, a baby's voice is sweet, Though not a word she's ever said. A baby loves you for yourself, She's not entranced by sordid pelf; Though other loves may leave a smart, A baby never breaks your heart. It matters not though you be poor And friendless in the outside world, The moment that you cross the door That baby in your arms is curled. Though all the world may jibe and jeer, A baby smiles when you draw near; Through joy or sorrow, weal or woe, With you, a babe is glad to go. Ah, lucky man, indeed, is he Who has a babe at home to love; All that men now are striving for, He owns a treasure far above. Though fate may rob him of his gold And bare him in the winter's cold, And drag him down to deep despair, His baby still will count him fair. Edgar Albert Guest www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 A Battle Prayer God of battles, be with us now: Guard our sons from the lead of shame, Watch our sons when the cannons flame, Let them not to a tyrant bow. God of battles, to Thee we pray: Be with each loyal son who fights In the cause of justice and human rights, Grant him strength and lead the way. God of battles, our youth we give To the battle line on a foreign soil, To conquer hatred and lust and spoil; Grant that they and their cause shall live. Edgar Albert Guest www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 A Bear Story There was a bear — his name was Jim, An' children weren't askeered of him, An' he lived in a cave, where he Was confortubbul as could be, An' in that cave, so my Pa said, Jim always kept a stock of bread An' honey, so that he could treat The boys an' girls along his street. An' all that Jim could say was 'Woof!' An' give a grunt that went like 'Soof!' An' Pa says when his grunt went off It sounded jus' like Grandpa's cough, Or like our Jerry when he's mad An' growls at peddler men that's bad. While grown-ups were afraid of Jim, Kids could do anything with him. One day a little boy like me That had a sister Marjorie, Was walking through the woods, an' they Heard something 'woofing' down that way, An' they was scared an' stood stock still An' wished they had a gun to kill Whatever 'twas, but little boys Don't have no guns that make a noise.