: John Smith U.S.A. by Field Eugene - American poetry

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JOHN SMITH.

To-day I strayed in Charing Cross as wretched as could be With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea; There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast. This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by-- Not one in all the crowd knew me and not a one knew I! "Oh, for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh, for a friendly face! Oh, for a hearty handclasp in this teeming desert place!" And so, soliloquizing as a homesick creature will, Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's, Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes. The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight-- The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day-- The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U.S.A."

Wildly I clutched the register and brooded on that name-- I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same. I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West-- I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best. His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue, And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue; Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette-- Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet; I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream, Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime; So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"--your pedigree confess In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess"; Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A."

It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow; Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills; Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies; Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond, And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond; Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent; Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir, Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire: Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week, And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak, And where our grandmas sleep their sleep--God rest their souls, I say! And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U.S.A."

Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow; Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn; You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott-- Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot; And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue; Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight, Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night; Whar blooms the furtive 'possum--pride an' glory of the South-- And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth! Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze, Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay-- Hyar's lookin' at yo', Colonel "John Smith, U.S.A."!

Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West-- That part of our republic I shall always love the best? Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine? Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide; Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote, And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago ! Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high again, And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then; The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below; And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.

THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.

Of all the gracious gifts of Spring, Is there another can safely surpass This delicate, voluptuous thing-- This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? Upon a damask napkin laid, What exhalations superfine Our gustatory nerves pervade, Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine.

The ancients loved this noble fish, And, coming from the kitchen fire All piping hot upon a dish, What raptures did he not inspire! "Fish should swim twice," they used to say-- Once in their native vapid brine, And then a better way-- You understand? Fetch on the wine!

And, harkee, garcon! let the blood Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him-- Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood This piscatorial pride should swim; So, were he living, he should say He gladly died for me and mine, And, as it was his native spray, He'd lash the sauce--What, ho! the wine!

I would it were ordained for me To share your fate, oh finny friend! I surely were not loath to be Reserved for such a noble end; For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, At last reels in his ruthless line, What were my ecstacy to swim In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!

Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, Come hither every year and bring The boons provocative of mirth; And should your stock of bass run low, However much I might repine, I think I might survive the blow If plied with wine, and still more wine!

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