Part 1 (1/2)
Hoosier Lyrics.
by Eugene Field.
INTRODUCTION.
From whatever point of view the character of Eugene Field is seen, genius--rare and quaint presents itself in childlike simplicity. That he was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimination, all will admit.
He was a humorist as delicate and fanciful as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain, Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or Bret Harte in their happiest moods. Within him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked in any direction, and from which he could, at will, extract that which his imagination saw and felt most. That he occasionally left the child-world, in which he longed to linger, to wander among the older children of men, where intuitively the hungry listener follows him into his Temple of Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him not, can while away the moments imbibing the genius of his imagination in the poetry and prose here presented.
Though never possessing an intimate acquaintances.h.i.+p with Field, owing largely to the disparity in our ages, still there existed a bond of friendliness that renders my good opinion of him in a measure trustworthy. Born in the same city, both students in the same college, engaged at various times in newspaper work both in St. Louis and Chicago, residents of the same ward, with many mutual friends, it is not surprising that I am able to say of him that ”the world is better off that he lived, not in gold and silver or precious jewels, but in the bestowal of priceless truths, of which the possessor of this book becomes a benefactor of no mean share of his estate.”
Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of childhood or the poems that lend mirth to the out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome this unique collection of his choicest wit and humor.
CHARLES WALTER Brown.
Chicago, January, 1905.
HOOSIER LYRICS PARAPHRASED.
We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more, Supposin' we wuz goin' to get the nominas.h.i.+n, sh.o.r.e; For Col. New a.s.sured us (in that noospaper o' his) That we cud hev the airth, if we'd only tend to biz.
But here we've been a-slavin' more like bosses than like men To diskiver that the people do not hanker arter Ben; It _is_ fur Jeems G. Blaine an' _not_ for Harrison they shout-- And the gobble-uns 'el git us Ef we Don't Watch Out!
When I think of the fate that is waiting for Ben, I pine for the peace of my childhood again; I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul And hop off once more in the old swimmin' hole!
The world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew (Which is another word for soup) that drips for me and you.
”Little Benjy! Little Benjy!” chirps the robin in the tree; ”Little Benjy!” sighs the clover, ”Little Benjy!” moans the bee; ”Little Benjy! Little Benjy!” murmurs John C. New, A-stroking down the whiskers which the winds have whistled through.
Looks jest like his grampa, who's dead these many years-- He wears the hat his grampa wore, pulled down below his ears; We'd like to have him four years more, but if he cannot stay-- Nothin' to say, good people; nothin' at all to say!
There, little Ben, don't cry!
They have busted your boom, I know; And the second term For which you squirm Has gone where good n.i.g.g.e.rs go!
But Blaine is safe, and the goose hangs high-- There, little Ben, don't cry!
Mabbe we'll git even for this unexpected shock, When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock!