Hoosier Lyrics E-Book

Eugene Field

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In "Hoosier Lyrics," Eugene Field captures the essence of rural America through lyrical poetry that blends regionalism with a touch of nostalgia. Drawing on his experiences growing up in Indiana, Field's verses evoke the simplicity and beauty of Midwestern life, employing a vibrant and conversational style that resonates with both adult and youthful readers. The collection reflects the burgeoning American literary movement of the late 19th century, where local color and personal perspective took center stage, celebrating regional identities against a backdrop of rapid industrialization. Eugene Field, known as the 'Poet of Children,' was greatly influenced by his own upbringing and the people he encountered in Indiana. His deep appreciation for the Midwestern ethos and its unique charm inspired him to craft poems that resonate not only with nostalgia but also with universal themes of love, family, and community. Field'Äôs literary career was marked by a distinct affinity for blending humor with pathos, a characteristic evident in this celebrated work. "Hoosier Lyrics" is highly recommended for readers who appreciate poetry that encapsulates the heart of America. Its vivid imagery and heartfelt emotion provide a timeless reflection on life in the Midwest, making it a perfect addition for those seeking to explore the depth of American regional literature.

Leseprobe

Eugene Field

Hoosier Lyrics

Published by Good Press, 2019

[email protected]

EAN 4064066206840

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

HOOSIER LYRICS PARAPHRASED.

We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more, Supposin' we wuz goin' to get the nominashin, shore; For Col. New assured 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 niggers 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!

Oh, the newspaper man! He works for paw; He's the liveliest critter 'at ever you saw; With whiskers 'at reach f'om his eyes to his throat. He knows how to wheedle and rivet a vote; He wunst wuz a consul 'way over the sea— But never again a consul he'll be! He come back f'om Lon'on one mornin' in May— He come back for bizness, an' here he will stay— Ain't he a awful slick newspaper man? A newspaper, newspaper, newspaper man!

You kin talk about yer cities where the politicians meet— You kin talk about yer cities where a decent man gits beat; With the general run o' human kind I beg to disagree— The little town of Tailholt is good enough f'r me! Chicago was a pleasant town in eighteen-eighty-eight, And I have lived in Washington long time in splendid state; But all the present prospects are that after ninety-three The little town o' Tailholt 'll be good enough f'r me!

"I wunst lived in Indiany," said a consul, gaunt and grim, As most of us Blaine delegates wuz kind o' guyin' him; "I wunst lived in Indiany, and my views wuz widely read, Fur I run a daily paper w'ich 'Lije Halford edited; But since I've been away f'm home, my paper (seems to me) Ain't nearly such a inflooence ez wot it used to be; So, havin' done with consulin', I'm goin' to make a break Towards making of a paper like the one I used to make."

Think, if you kin, of his term mos' through, An' that ol' man wantin' a secon' term, too; Picture him bendin' over the form

Of his consul-gineril, stanch an' grim,

Who has stood the brunt of that jimblain storm—

An' that ol' man jest wrapt up in him!

An' the consul-gineril, with eyes all bleared An' a haunted look in his ashen beard, Kind o' gaspin' a feeble way— But soothed to hear the ol' man say In a meaning tone (as one well may When words are handy and——'s to pay):

"Good-by, John; take care of yo'

self

!"

GETTIN' ON.

When I wuz somewhat younger,

I wuz reckoned purty gay—

I had my fling at everything

In a rollickin', coltish way,

But times have strangely altered

Since sixty years ago—

This age of steam an' things don't seem

Like the age I used to know,

Your modern innovations

Don't suit me, I confess,

As did the ways of the good ol' days—

But I'm gettin' on, I guess.

I set on the piazza

An' hitch around with the sun—

Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap,

Waitin' till school is done,

An' then I tell the children

The things I done in youth,

An' near as I can (as a venerable man)

I stick to the honest truth!

But the looks of them 'at listen

Seems sometimes to express

The remote idee that I'm gone—you see!

An' I am gettin' on, I guess.

I get up in the mornin',

An' nothin' else to do,

Before the rest are up and dressed

I read the papers through;

I hang 'round with the women

All day an' hear 'em talk,

An' while they sew or knit I show

The baby how to walk;

An' somehow, I feel sorry

When they put away his dress

An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's)—

I'm gettin' on, I guess!

Sometimes, with twilight round me,

I see (or seem to see)

A distant shore where friends of yore

Linger and watch for me;

Sometimes I've heered 'em callin'

So tenderlike 'nd low

That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed,

Or an echo of long ago;

An' sometimes on my forehead

There falls a soft caress,

Or the touch of a hand—you understand—

I'm gettin' on, I guess.

MINNIE LEE.

Writing from an Indiana town a young woman asks: "Is the enclosed poem worth anything?"

We find that the poem is as follows:

She has left us, our own darling—

And we never more shall see

Here on earth our dearly loved one—

God has taken Minnie Lee.

Her heart was full of goodness

And her face was fair to see

And her life was full of beauty—

How we miss our Minnie Lee!

But her work on earth is over

And her spirit now is free

She has gone to live in heaven—

Shall we weep for Minnie Lee?

Would we call our angel darling

Back again across the sea?

No! but sometime up in heaven

We will meet loved Minnie Lee.

To the question as to whether this poem is worth anything we chose to answer in verse as follows:

Sweet poetess, your poetry

Is bad as bad can be,

And yet we heartily deplore

The death of Minnie Lee.

It would have pleased us better

If, in His wisdom, He

Had taken you, sweet poetess,

Instead of Minnie Lee.

Your turn will come, however,

And swift and sure 'twill be

If you continue sending

Your rhymes on Minnie Lee.

From this we hope you will gather

A dim surmise that we

Don't take much stock in poems

Concerning Minnie Lee.

LIZZIE.