 | Verse and prose by Eugene Field : from the George H. Yenowine collection of books and manuscripts |  |
MR. PEATTIE'S RUBBERS
Hard by his desk one stormy night,
Whilst their possessor paused to write
His criticisms terse and bright,
Lay Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
Whilst their possessor paused to write
His criticisms terse and bright,
Lay Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
The night was wild with rain and sleet,
The slush ran riot in the street—
In short, the world outside was meet
For Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
The slush ran riot in the street—
In short, the world outside was meet
For Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
But when the office clock struck one
And journalistic work was done,
Some other, thieving son-of-a-gun
Took Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
And journalistic work was done,
Some other, thieving son-of-a-gun
Took Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
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A man with unkempt beard and hair
Went snooping wildly here and there,
But found no traces anywhere
Of Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
Went snooping wildly here and there,
But found no traces anywhere
Of Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
Now curses on the callous soul
Of that remorseless wretch who stole
The subject of this dismal dole—
Viz: Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
Of that remorseless wretch who stole
The subject of this dismal dole—
Viz: Mr. Peattie's rubbers.
April 10, 1886.
THE HUMANE LAD
Why should a naughty, froward boy
The harmless little fly assail?
Or why his precious time employ
At pulling honest Rover's tail?
The harmless little fly assail?
Or why his precious time employ
At pulling honest Rover's tail?
Where e'er I go, each living thing
Has its predestined place to fill,
And naught that moves on foot or wing
Was made for boys to vex or kill.
Has its predestined place to fill,
And naught that moves on foot or wing
Was made for boys to vex or kill.
The little fly, howe'er so frail,
Was made on Rover's hide to prey,
And faithful Rover's honest tail
Was made to brush the fly away.
Was made on Rover's hide to prey,
And faithful Rover's honest tail
Was made to brush the fly away.
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So let each bird and beast enjoy
The vain, brief life which God has giv'n,
Whilst I my youthful hours employ
In works that fit the soul for heav'n,
The vain, brief life which God has giv'n,
Whilst I my youthful hours employ
In works that fit the soul for heav'n,
1886.
A NATIONAL HYMN
Whether on hill or plain,
Blood of the patriot slain
Hallows our sod;
While from the glorious air
Vaulting our land so fair
Fall, as an incense rare,
Blessings of God.
Blood of the patriot slain
Hallows our sod;
While from the glorious air
Vaulting our land so fair
Fall, as an incense rare,
Blessings of God.
Holy the heritage
Blazoned on hist'ry's page
For us to keep;
Wrapped in thy mantles red,
With our dear flag o'er head,
Rest thee, illustrious dead—
Sweet be thy sleep!
Blazoned on hist'ry's page
For us to keep;
Wrapped in thy mantles red,
With our dear flag o'er head,
Rest thee, illustrious dead—
Sweet be thy sleep!
Princes, that scorn the Right—
Nations, whose pride is Might,
Crumble to dust;
Freedom the boon we crave—
No man shall be a slave
Where'er our banner wave—
God is our trust!
Nations, whose pride is Might,
Crumble to dust;
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No man shall be a slave
Where'er our banner wave—
God is our trust!
Seeing those early years
Dim thro' a mist of tears,
Pausing, we stand;
While spirit voices share
This universal pray'r
Filling the solemn air—
“God bless our land!”
Dim thro' a mist of tears,
Pausing, we stand;
While spirit voices share
This universal pray'r
Filling the solemn air—
“God bless our land!”
Sept. 17, 1887.
YE CREWELL SASSINGER MILL
All upp & downe ye river & along ye sandy shore
Ye yemen ben a moaning & ye women skrike full shrill
&, like a praroor fire, ye news are spredde from doore to doore
That Sawney leesed a finger in ye sassinger mill.
Ye yemen ben a moaning & ye women skrike full shrill
&, like a praroor fire, ye news are spredde from doore to doore
That Sawney leesed a finger in ye sassinger mill.
O Sawneys hand itt ben as faire as ever dole a pack
Or drawed a pair of five spotts on ye deuces for too fill;
None bolder hande nor Sawneys never whoppit up ye jack—
But now it leesed a finger in ye sassinger mill!
Or drawed a pair of five spotts on ye deuces for too fill;
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But now it leesed a finger in ye sassinger mill!
His fayther slew a barrow on a Moneday afternoone—
This morning, whiles that Sawney did ye hopper all to-fill,
His evill sister Betty gave ye cranke a turn too soone,
& Sawney leesed a finger in ye sassinger mill!
This morning, whiles that Sawney did ye hopper all to-fill,
His evill sister Betty gave ye cranke a turn too soone,
& Sawney leesed a finger in ye sassinger mill!
1887.
UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE
The sheriff sleeps in a marble vault—
The kynge in a shroud of golde,
And upon the air with a chanted prayer
Mingles the mock of moulde.
The kynge in a shroud of golde,
And upon the air with a chanted prayer
Mingles the mock of moulde.
But the deere draw to the shady pool,
The birds sing blithe and free,
And the wildflowers bloom on a hidden tomb
Under the greenwood tree.
The birds sing blithe and free,
And the wildflowers bloom on a hidden tomb
Under the greenwood tree.
Oct. '87.
| Verse and prose by Eugene Field : from the George H. Yenowine collection of books and manuscripts | |