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Read Ebook: A Little Book of Western Verse by Field Eugene Field Roswell Martin Contributor
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Ebook has 481 lines and 34097 words, and 10 pages
OUR TWO OPINIONS APPLE-PIE AND CHEESE "GOOD-BY--GOD BLESS YOU!" HI-SPY LONG AGO
LITTLE BOY BLUE THE LYTTEL BOY KRINKEN TO A USURPER AILSIE, MY BAIRN SOME TIME
MADGE: YE HOYDEN THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD TO ROBIN GOODFELLOW YVYTOT THE DIVINE LULLABY IN THE FIRELIGHT THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM AT THE DOOR
THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S PRAYER DE AMICITIIS THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE
LITTLE MACK MR. DANA, OF THE NEW YORK SUN TO A SOUBRETTE B?RANGER'S "BROKEN FIDDLE" HEINE'S "WIDOW, OR DAUGHTER?" UHLAND'S "THREE CAVALIERS" B?RANGER'S "MY LAST SONG PERHAPS" HUGO'S "FLOWER TO BUTTERFLY" B?RANGER'S "MA VOCATION"
THE LITTLE PEACH A PROPER TREWE IDYLL OF CAMELOT IN FLANDERS OUR BIGGEST FISH
MOTHER AND CHILD THE WANDERER SOLDIER, MAIDEN, AND FLOWER THIRTY-NINE
CASEY'S TABLE D'H?TE
This Casey wuz an Irishman,--you'd know it by his name And by the facial features appertainin' to the same. He'd lived in many places 'nd had done a thousand things, From the noble art of actin' to the work of dealin' kings, But, somehow, hadn't caught on; so, driftin' with the rest, He drifted for a fortune to the undeveloped West, And he come to Red Hoss Mountain when the little camp wuz new, When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true; And, havin' been a stewart on a Mississippi boat, He opened up a caffy 'nd he run a tabble dote.
There wuz half-a-dozen tables altogether in the place, And the tax you had to pay upon your vittles wuz a case; The boardin'-houses in the camp protested 't wuz a shame To patronize a robber, which this Casey wuz the same! They said a case was robbery to tax for ary meal; But Casey tended strictly to his biz, 'nd let 'em squeal; And presently the boardin'-houses all began to bust, While Casey kept on sawin' wood 'nd layin' in the dust; And oncet a tray'lin' editor from Denver City wrote A piece back to his paper, puffin' Casey's tabble dote.
The very recollection of them puddin's 'nd them pies Brings a yearnin' to my buzzum 'nd the water to my eyes; 'Nd seems like cookin' nowadays ain't what it used to be In camp on Red Hoss Mountain in that year of '63; But, maybe, it is better, 'nd, maybe, I'm to blame-- I'd like to be a-livin' in the mountains jest the same-- I'd like to live that life again when skies wuz fair 'nd blue, When things wuz run wide open 'nd men wuz brave 'nd true; When brawny arms the flinty ribs of Red Hoss Mountain smote For wherewithal to pay the price of Casey's tabble dote.
And you, O cherished brother, a-sleepin' 'way out west, With Red Hoss Mountain huggin' you close to its lovin' breast,-- Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how we used to do, Of how we worked our little claims together, me 'nd you? Why, when I saw you last a smile wuz restin' on your face, Like you wuz glad to sleep forever in that lonely place; And so you wuz, 'nd I 'd be, too, if I wuz sleepin' so. But, bein' how a brother's love ain't for the world to know, Whenever I've this heartache 'nd this chokin' in my throat, I lay it all to thinkin' of Casey's tabble dote.
LITTLE BOY BLUE
The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket molds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was passing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.
"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So toddling off to his trundle-bed He dreamed of the pretty toys. And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue,-- Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true.
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.
MADGE: YE HOYDEN
At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft, Ffor that a romping wench was shee-- "Now marke this rede," they bade her oft, "Forsooken sholde your folly bee!" But Madge, ye hoyden, laught & cried, "Oho, oho," in girlish glee, And noe thing mo replied.
No griffe she had nor knew no care, But gayly rompit all daies long, And, like ye brooke that everywhere Goes jinking with a gladsome song, Shee danct and songe from morn till night,-- Her gentil harte did know no wrong, Nor did she none despight.
Sir Tomas from his noblesse halle Did trend his path a somer's daye, And to ye hoyden he did call And these ffull evill words did say: "O wolde you weare a silken gown And binde your haire with ribands gay? Then come with me to town!"
But Madge, ye hoyden, shoke her head,-- "I'le be no lemman unto thee For all your golde and gownes," shee said, "ffor Robin hath bespoken mee." Then ben Sir Tomas sore despight, And back unto his hall went hee With face as ashen white.
"O Robin, wilt thou wed this girl, Whenas she is so vaine a sprite?" So spak ffull many an envious churle Unto that curteyse countrie wight. But Robin did not pay no heede; And they ben wed a somer night & danct upon ye meade.
Then scarse ben past a yeare & daye Whan Robin toke unto his bed, And long, long time therein he lay, Nor colde not work to earn his bread; in soche an houre, whan times ben sore, Sr. Tomas came with haughtie tread & knockit at ye doore.
Saies: "Madge, ye hoyden, do you know how that you once despighted me? But He forgiff an you will go my swete harte lady ffor to bee!" But Madge, ye hoyden, heard noe more,-- straightway upon her heele turnt shee, & shote ye cottage doore.
Soe Madge, ye hoyden, did her parte whiles that ye years did come and go; 't was somer allwais in her harte, tho' winter strewed her head with snowe. She toilt and span thro' all those years nor bid repine that it ben soe, nor never shad noe teares.
Whiles Robin lay within his bed, A divell came and whispered lowe,-- "Giff you will doe my will," he said, "None more of sickness you shall knowe!" Ye which gave joy to Robin's soul-- Saies Robin: "Divell, be it soe, an that you make me whoale!"
That day, upp rising ffrom his bed, Quoth Robin: "I am well again!" & backe he came as from ye dead, & he ben mickle blithe as when he wooed his doxy long ago; & Madge did make ado & then Her teares ffor joy did flowe.
Then came that hell-born cloven thing-- Saies: "Robin, I do claim your life, and I hencefoorth shall be your king, and you shall do my evill strife. Look round about and you shall see sr. Tomas' young and ffoolish wiffe-- a comely dame is shee!"
Ye divell had him in his power, and not colde Robin say thereto: Soe Robin from that very houre did what that divell bade him do; He wooed and dipt, and on a daye Sr. Tomas' wife and Robin flewe a many leagues away.
Sir Tomas ben wood wroth and swore, And sometime strode thro' leaf & brake and knockit at ye cottage door and thus to Madge, ye hoyden, spake: Saies, "I wolde have you ffor mine own, So come with mee & bee my make, syn tother birds ben flown."
But Madge, ye hoyden, bade him noe; Saies: "Robin is my swete harte still, And, tho' he doth despight me soe, I mean to do him good for ill. So goe, Sir Tomas, goe your way; ffor whiles I bee on live I will ffor Robin's coming pray!"
Soe Madge, ye hoyden, kneelt & prayed that Godde sholde send her Robin backe. And tho' ye folke vast scoffing made, and tho' ye worlde ben colde and blacke, And tho', as moneths dragged away, ye hoyden's harte ben like to crack With griff, she still did praye.
Sicke of that divell's damn?d charmes, Aback did Robin come at last, And Madge, ye hoyden, sprad her arms and gave a cry and held him fast; And as she clong to him and cried, her patient harte with joy did brast, & Madge, ye hoyden, died.
OLD ENGLISH LULLABY
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 BIBLIOMANIAC'S PRAYER
Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way That I may truths eternal seek; I need protecting care to-day,-- My purse is light, my flesh is weak. So banish from my erring heart All baleful appetites and hints Of Satan's fascinating art, Of first editions, and of prints. Direct me in some godly walk Which leads away from bookish strife, That I with pious deed and talk May extra-illustrate my life.
But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee To keep me in temptation's way, I humbly ask that I may be Most notably beset to-day; Let my temptation be a book, Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep, Whereon when other men shall look, They'll wail to know I got it cheap. Oh, let it such a volume be As in rare copperplates abounds, Large paper, clean, and fair to see, Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.
THE LYTTEL BOY
Sometime 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 sometime, 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 used 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!
THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE
It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued.
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