Eugene Field Famous Poems

Eugene Field was born in 1850 in St Louis, Missouri. He is mostly known for his children’s poetry and humorous essays. He holds a unique position in the world of poetry because of his funny writing. He died but his work will live on forever.

Old Times, Old Friends, Old Love

Poet: Eugene Field

Eugene Field Famous Poems

There are no days like the good old days, –
The days when we were youthful!
When humankind were pure of mind,
And speech and deeds were truthful;
Before a love for sordid gold
Became man’s ruling passion,
And before each dame and maid became
Slave to the tyrant fashion!

There are no girls like the good old girls, –
Against the world I’d stake ’em!
As buxom and smart and clean of heart
As the Lord knew how to make ’em!
They were rich in spirit and common-sense,
And piety all supportin;
They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too,
And they made such likely courtin’!

There are no boys like the good old boys, —
When we were boys together!
When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet
That dimpled the laughing heather;
When the pewee sung to the summer dawn
Of the bee in the billowy clover,
Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will
Echoed his night song over.

There is no love like the good old love, –
The love that mother gave us!
We are old, old men, yet we pine again
For that precious grace, – God save us!
So we dream and dream of the good old times.
And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder.
As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams
Of heaven away off yonder.


Clover-Top And Thistle-Down

Poet: Eugene Field

Clover-top sighed when the wind sang sweet,
Dropping the thistle-down at her feet;
“Oh, dear me, never a day
Can I roam at my will, but ever, alway.
In this tiresome meadow must ever stay!”

Thistle-down floated, then sunk into rest,
Only to rise at the breezes’ behest,
Hither and yon, on the wings of the air.
Tired little sprite, so dainty and fair,
“Oh, to just stop,” she sighed, “anywhere.”

Honey-bees swarmed to thistle and clover,
Sweet little toiling ones, over and over
A work-a-day song they cheerily sin:
“Look up, dear hearts, and what the days bring,
Bless God for it all – yes- everything! “



Poet: Eugene Field

O Hapless day! O wretched day!
I hoped you’d pass me by-
Alas, the years have sneaked away
And all is changed but I!
Had I the power, I would remand
You to a gloom condign.
But here you’ve crept upon me and
I – I am thirty-nine!

Now, were I thirty-five, I could
Assume a flippant guise;
Or, were I forty years, I should
Undoubtedly look wise;
For forty years are said to bring
Sedateness superfine;
But thirty-nine don’t mean a thing –
A bas with thirty-nine!

You healthy, hulking girls and boys, –
What makes you grow so fast?
Oh, I’ll survive your lusty noise –
I’m tough and bound to last!
No, no – I’m old and withered too –
I feel my powers decline,
(Yet none believes this can be true
Of one at thirty-nine.)

And you, dear girl with velvet eyes
I wonder what you mean
Through all our keen anxieties
By keeping sweet sixteen.
With your dear love to warm my heart,
Wretch were I to repine;
I was but jesting at the start –
I’m glad I m thirty-nine!

So, little children, roar and race
As blithely as you can,
And, sweetheart, let your tender grace
Exalt the Day and Man;
For then these factors (I’ll engage)
All subtly shall combine
To make both juvenile and sage
The one who’s thirty-nine!

Yes, after all, I’m free to say
I would much rather be
Standing as I do stand to-day,
‘Twixt devil and deep sea;
For though my face be dark with care
Or with a grimace shine,
Each haply falls unto my share,
For I am thirty-nine!

‘Tis passing meet to make good cheer
And lord it like a king.
Since only once we catch the year
That doesn’t mean a thing.
O happy day! O gracious day!
I pledge thee in this wine –
Come, let us journey on our way
A year, good Thirty-Nine!


Paradise Regained

Poet: Eugene Field

Once on a time a man did die,
And bursting forth, his soul flew straight.
Up to the pearly realms on high
Where good St. Peter kept the gate.

The sainted Peter shook his head
And would not lend a pitying ear,
“Such worthless folks as you,” he said,
“Need make no application here! “

In vain the hapless soul implored,
The warden bade him go to grass,
In vain he begged and mourned and roared,
St. Peter would not let him pass.

Till, goaded on by misery’s stings.
And tortured by revenge and spite
That soul drew back and flapped its wings.
And crowed three times with all its might.

St. Peter blushed a scarlet blush,
“Pass in,” he cried, ” I’ll check your hat,
Don’t be so personal, but hush
In future all such sounds as that!”

Your soul may be as white as snow.
Your life be full of good intent,
‘Twill matter not, someone will know
The record to your detriment.


Christmas Hymn

Poet: Eugene Field

Sing, Christmas bells!
Say to the earth this is the morn
Whereon our Saviour-King is born;
Sing to all men, – the bond, the free,
The rich, the poor, the high, the low,
The little child that sports in glee,
The aged folk that tottering go, –
Proclaim the morn
That Christ is born.
That saveth them and saveth me!

Sing, angel host!
Sing of the star that God has placed
Above the manger in the east;
Sing of the glories of the night.
The virgin’s sweet humility.
The Babe with kingly robes bedight, –
Sing to all men where’er they be
This Christmas morn;
For Christ is born.
That saveth them and saveth me!

Sing, sons of earth!
O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!
God liveth, and we have a king!
The curse is gone, the bond are free,-
By Bethlehem’s star that brightly beamed.
By all the heavenly signs that be,
We know that Israel is redeemed;
That on this morn
The Christ is born
That saveth you and saveth me!

Sing, O my heart!
Sing thou in rapture this dear mom
Whereon the blessed Prince is born!
And as thy songs shall be of love.
So let my deeds be charity, –
By the dear Lord that reigns above,
By Him that died upon the tree,
By this fair morn
Whereon is born
The Christ that saveth all and me!


Thanksgiving Day

Poet: Eugene Field

Pies of pumpkin, apple, mince.
Jams and jellies, peach and quince.
Purple grapes and apples red.
Cakes and nuts and gingerbread —
That’s Thanksgiving.

Turkey! Oh, a great big fellow!
Fruits all ripe and rich and mellow.
Everything that’s nice to eat,
More than I can now repeat —
That’s Thanksgiving.

Lots and lots of jolly fun,
Games to play and races run,
All as happy as can be —
For this happiness you can see
Makes Thanksgiving.

We must thank the One who gave
All the good things that we have;
That is why we keep the day
Set aside, our mothers say.
For Thanksgiving.


Good-By- God Bless You!

Poet: Eugene Field

I like the Anglo-Saxon speech
With its direct revealings;
It takes a hold, and seems to reach
Way down into your feelings;
That some folk deem it rude, I know,
And therefore they abuse it;
But I have never found it so, –
Before all else I choose it.
I don’t object that men should air
The Gallic they have paid for.
With ” Au revoir,” “Adieu, ma chere,”
For that’s what French was made for.
But when a crony takes your hand
At parting, to address you.
He drops all foreign lingo and
He says, “Good-by – God bless you!”

This seems to me a sacred phrase,
With reverence impassioned, –
A thing come down from righteous days,
Quaintly but nobly fashioned;
It well becomes an honest face,
A voice that’s round and cheerful;
It stays the sturdy in his place,
And soothes the weak and fearful.
Into the porches of the ears
It steals with subtle unction,
And in your heart of hearts appears
To work its gracious function;
And all day long with pleasing song
It lingers to caress you, –
I’m sure no human heart goes wrong
That’s told “Good-by — God bless you!”

I love the words, – perhaps because,
When I was leaving Mother,
Standing at last in solemn pause
We looked at one another.
And I – I saw in Mother’s eyes
The love she could not tell me, –
A love eternal as the skies.
Whatever fate befell me;
She put her arms about my neck
And soothed the pain of leaving,
And though her heart was like to break,
She spoke no word of grieving;
She let no tear bedim her eye,
For fear that might distress me,
But, kissing me, she said good-by,
And asked our God to bless me.


St. Valentines Day

Poet: Eugene Field

Though the bird flies far
And the fair flower goes,
The sweet of the year
Is set in the snows.

The wind o’ the winter
It breaks into bloom,
And suddenly songs
Are sung in the gloom.

And winging hearts cross
And whisper together,
And a night and a day
It is perfect weather.



Poet: Eugene Field

Arouse, O birds, the time is nigh
For omelettes and for poaches,
Lift up your anthem to the sky,
For Easter day approaches!

Awake, O Shanghais, slim and tall,
And Bantams short and squatty.
And Cochins towering over all,
And Games so fierce and haughty!

Awake, O Brama Pootrah bird.
And rend the wintry shackles,
And let your kittycaws be heard.
Your crowings and your cackles!

Give us, O birds, a new-made lay.
Appropriate to the minute.
With nothing else, the shell away.
But what there should be in it!

Give us, O birds, so fair a lay
No groceryman may cozen,
A modest lay, once every day.
At living rates per dozen.


A Funny Little Boy

Poet: Eugene Field

A funny little chin,
A funny little nose,
A funny little grin.
Ten funny little toes.
Two funny little eyes,
And funny little hands,
How funnily he tries
To give his wee commands

A funny little chat
With funny little bees,
A funny little cat
And funny toads and trees,
A funny little dress,
A funny laugh of joy.
May heaven ever bless
My funny little boy,

A funny little sigh,
A funny little head,
That funnily will try
To miss the time for bed.
A funny little peep
From funny eyes that gleam,
A funny little sleep,
A funny little dream.


The Wanderer

Poet: Eugene Field

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea,
I found a shell,
And to my listening ear the lonely thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing,
Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

How came the shell upon that mountain height?
Ah, who can say
Whether there dropped by some too careless hand,
Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land,
Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day?

Strange, was it not Far from its native deep,
One song it sang, –
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide.
Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide, –
Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.

And as the shell upon the mountain height
Sings of the sea.
So do I ever, leagues and leagues away, –
So do I ever, wandering where I may, –
Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.


The Same Dear Hand

Poet: Eugene Field

The bells ring out a happy sound,
The earth is mantled o’er with white,
It is the merry Christmas night.
And love, and mirth, and joy abound.
And here sit you and here sit I –
I should be happiest in the land.
For oh! I hold the same dear hand
I’ve held for many a year gone by.

It is not withered up with care –
It is as fresh and fair to see –
As sweet to hold and dear to me
As when with chimes upon the air.
On Christmas nights of years ago
I held the same dear little thing.
And felt its soft caresses bring
The flushes to my throbbing brow.

Ah, we were born to never part –
This little hand I hold to-night,
And I – so with strong delight
I press it to my beating heart.
And in the midnight solemn hush,
I bless the little hand I hold –
In broken whispers be it told –
It is the old time bob-tail flush.


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