Classic Poetry Series Eugene Field - poems - Publication Date: 2012 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Eugene Field(2 September 1850 - 4 November 1895) Eugene Field, Sr. was an American writer, best known for his children's poetry and humorous essays. <b>Biography</b> Field was an unusual poet. He was one of the few poets who wrote only children's poetry. That is how he got his nickname, The Children's Poet. It all started September 2, 1850, at 634 South Broadway in Saint Louis. That's where and when Eugene Field was born. He had one brother named Roswell, who was one year younger than he, and a sister who died soon after her birth. He and his brother were very close, but very different. Eugene took after their mother, Francis, while Roswell took after their father. Eugene was afraid of the dark while his brother wasn't afraid of anything. Eugene hated studying while Roswell loved it. When the boys were six and five, their mother died. Mr. Field sent them to live with their cousin, Mary French, in Massachusetts until he could take care of them. While living on their cousin's farm, Eugene wrote his first poem . He was nine then, and the poem was about their cousin's dog, Fido. At the age of fifteen, Eugene was shipped off to a small private school in Massachusetts. There were only five boys in the school, and Eugene loved leading the boys in tricks against the master of the school. Eugene went on to William's College in Massachusetts. Unfortunately, his father died when he was nineteen and he dropped out after eight months. Next he went to Knox College but dropped out of college after a year. Then he went to the University of Missouri, where his brother was also attending. While there, he met Julia Comstock, who was fourteen. When Julia turned sixteen, she and Eugene married. They had eight children. Two died as babies, another died as a little boy. The remaining five grew up and had long lives. While married, Eugene had many jobs. He worked for many newspapers until the Chicago Daily News offered him a job. He wrote a humorous column called "Sharps and Flats". His home in Chicago was near the intersection of N. Clarendon and W. Hutchinson in the neighborhood now known as Buena Park. He first started publishing poetry in 1879, when his poem "Christmas Treasures" appeared in A Little Book of Western Verse. Over a dozen volumes of poetry followed and he became well known for his light-hearted poems for children, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 perhaps the most famous of which is "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod." Field also published a number of short stories, including "The Holy Cross" and "Daniel and the Devil." Field died in Chicago of a heart attack at the age of 45. He is buried at the Church of the Holy Comforter in Kenilworth, Illinois. His 1901 biography by S. Thompson states that he was originally buried in Graceland Cemetery in Chicago, but his son-in-law, Senior Warden of the Church of the Holy Comforter, had him reinterred on March 7, 1926 <b>Legacy</b> Several of his poems were set to music with commercial success. Many of his works were accompanied by paintings from Maxfield Parrish. His former home in St. Louis is now a museum.A memorial to him, a statue of the "Dream Lady" from his poem "Rock-a-by-Lady", was erected in 1922 at the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. There is also a park and fieldhouse named in his honor in Chicago's Albany Park neighborhood. A statue of Wynken, Blynken and Nod adorns Washington Park, near Field's Denver home. In nearby Oak Park, Illinois, another park is named in his his honour. www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 "Booh!" On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap, And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap, In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face, And cautiously and quietly I move about the place; Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view, And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh"! Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared, And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared; And then his under lip came out and farther out it came, Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame" - But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!" He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!" And I - of course I do it; for, as his progenitor, It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for! And it is, oh, such fun I and sure that we shall rue The time when we are both too old to play the game "Booh!" Eugene Field www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 "Lollyby, Lolly, Lollyby" Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing, I heard a moder to her dearie singing "Lollyby, lolly, lollyby." And presently that chylde did cease hys weeping, And on his moder's breast did fall a-sleeping, To "lolly, lolly, lollyby." Faire ben the chylde unto his moder clinging, But fairer yet the moder's gentle singing,-- "Lollyby, lolly, lollyby." And angels came and kisst the dearie smiling In dreems while him hys moder ben beguiling With "lolly, lolly, lollyby!" Then to my harte saies I, "Oh, that thy beating Colde be assuaged by some swete voice repeating 'Lollyby, lolly, lollyby;' That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping, To 'lolly, lolly, lollyby!'" Sometime--mayhap when curfew bells are ringing-- A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing, "Lollyby, lolly, lollyby;" Sometime, mayhap, with Chrysts love round me streaming, I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming With "lolly, lolly, lollyby." Eugene Field www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 A Chaucerian Paraphrase Of Horace Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding; Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; But all that do with gode men wed full quickylye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly. Eugene Field www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 A Christmas Wish I'd like a stocking made for a giant, And a meeting house full of toys, Then I'd go out in a happy hunt For the poor little girls and boys; Up the street and down the street, And across and over the town, I'd search and find them everyone, Before the sun went down. Eugene Field www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 A Democratic Hymn Republicans of differing views Are pro or con protection; If that's the issue they would choose, Why, we have no objection. The issue we propose concerns Our hearts and homes more nearly: A wife to whom the nation turns And venerates so dearly. So, confident of what shall be, Our gallant host advances, Giving three cheers for Grover C. And three times three for Frances! So gentle is that honored dame, And fair beyond all telling, The very mention of her name Sets every breast to swelling. She wears no mortal crown of gold-- No courtiers fawn around her-- But with their love young hearts and old In loyalty have crowned her-- And so with Grover and his bride We're proud to take our chances, And it's three times three for the twain give we-- But particularly for Frances! Eugene Field www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 A Dream Of Sunshine I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase-- The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by, Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's call Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all; And by my side should be a friend--a trusty, genial friend, With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend; Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring-- For _then_ I'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King! How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat-- Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be, As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee; Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs, And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs; The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair (This latter metaphoric--we've no fimbriae to spare!); And I--transported by the bliss--shan't do a plaguey thing But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King! Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like, While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike; I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim-- But it's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks, And hear him tell of things he's seen or read of in his books-- To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about; A fountain-head refreshing--a clear, perennial spring Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King! Should varying winds or shifting tides redound to our despite-- In other words, should we return all bootless home at night, I'd back him up in anything he had a mind to say Of mighty bass he'd left behind or lost upon the way; I'd nod assent to every yarn involving piscine game-- I'd cross my heart and make my affidavit to the same; www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 8 For what is friendship but a scheme to help a fellow out-- And what a paltry fish or two to make such bones about! Nay, Sentiment a mantle of sweet charity would fling O'er perjuries committed for John Lyle King.