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“The Poems of Eugene Field”
Not Dobson’s dainty triolets, nor Chaucer’s sturdy verse;
Not Southey, Calverley nor Hood, nor eke Sir Thomas Perc.,
To none of these I bring the bay, to none the laurel yield—
My choice is for the Poetry of Eugene Field.
Not Southey, Calverley nor Hood, nor eke Sir Thomas Perc.,
To none of these I bring the bay, to none the laurel yield—
My choice is for the Poetry of Eugene Field.
How varied are the poem-themes in which that book abounds!
The Apple Pies, the Gosling Stews, the Joys Unknown to Lowndes!
And oh, how that dyspeptic apotheosized the cooks
And longed for roast-beef very rare, but even rarer books!
And wit ye well, how hee ben fain to rede of ony knight
Wyth mace and hauberk, helm and glaive, and mickle valoure dight;
While in the odes of Q. H. F. his knowledge he revealed—
Good sooth, he was a busy bard, was Old ’Gene Field.
The Apple Pies, the Gosling Stews, the Joys Unknown to Lowndes!
And oh, how that dyspeptic apotheosized the cooks
And longed for roast-beef very rare, but even rarer books!
And wit ye well, how hee ben fain to rede of ony knight
Wyth mace and hauberk, helm and glaive, and mickle valoure dight;
While in the odes of Q. H. F. his knowledge he revealed—
Good sooth, he was a busy bard, was Old ’Gene Field.
Exalted be the memory of him with whom we've smiled,
But blessed thrice the name of him that sang a little child.
Let those who will declare the Gentle Poet insincere—
But blessed thrice the name of him that sang a little child.
Let those who will declare the Gentle Poet insincere—
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