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Best Famous Eugene Field Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Eugene Field poems. This is a select list of the best famous Eugene Field poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Eugene Field poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Eugene Field poems.

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Written by Robert William Service |


 Let us have birthdays every day,
(I had the thought while I was shaving)
Because a birthday should be gay,
And full of grace and good behaving.
We can't have cakes and candles bright, And presents are beyond our giving, But let lt us cherish with delight The birthday way of lovely living.
For I have passed three-score and ten And I can count upon my fingers The years I hope to bide with men, (Though by God's grace one often lingers.
) So in the summers left to me, Because I'm blest beyond my merit, I hope with gratitude and glee To sparkle with the birthday spirit.
Let me inform myself each day Who's proudmost on the natal roster; If Washington or Henry Clay, Or Eugene Field or Stephen Foster.
oh lots of famous folks I'll find Who more than measure to my rating, And so thanksgivingly inclined Their birthdays I'll be celebrating.
For Oh I know the cheery glow| Of Anniversary rejoicing; Let me reflect its radiance so My daily gladness I'll be voicing.
And though I'm stooped and silver-haired, Let me with laughter make the hearth gay, So by the gods I may be spared Each year to hear: "Pop, Happy Birthday.

Written by Robert William Service |


 I like to think that when I fall,
A rain-drop in Death's shoreless sea,
This shelf of books along the wall,
Beside my bed, will mourn for me.
Regard it.
Aye, my taste is queer.
Some of my bards you may disdain.
Shakespeare and Milton are not here; Shelly and Keats you seek in vain.
Wordsworth, Tennyson, Browning too, Remarkably are not in view.
Who are they? Omar first you see, With Vine and Rose and Nightingale, Voicing my pet philosphy Of Wine and Song.
Then Reading Gaol, Where Fate a gruesome pattern makes, And dawn-light shudders as it wakes.
The Ancient Mariner is next, With eerie and terrific text; The Burns, with pawky human touch - Poor devil! I have loved him much.
And now a gay quartette behold: Bret Harte and Eugene Field are here; And Henly, chanting brave and bold, And Chesteron, in praise of Beer.
Lastly come valiant Singers three; To whom this strident Day belongs: Kipling, to whom I bow the knee, Masefield, with rugged sailor songs.
And to my lyric troupe I add With greatful heart - The Shropshire Lad.
Behold my minstrels, just eleven.
For half my life I've loved them well.
And though I have no hope of Heaven, And more than Highland fear of Hell, May I be damned if on this shelf ye find a rhyme I made myself.

Written by Eugene Field |

Ballad of women i love

 Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate
Hid away in an oaken chest,
And a Franklin platter of ancient date
Beareth Amandy Baker's crest;
What times soever I've been their guest,
Says I to myself in an undertone:
"Of womenfolk, it must be confessed,
These do I love, and these alone.
" Well, again, in the Nutmeg State, Dorothy Pratt is richly blest With a relic of art and a land effete-- A pitcher of glass that's cut, not pressed.
And a Washington teapot is possessed Down in Pelham by Marthy Stone-- Think ye now that I say in jest "These do I love, and these alone?" Were Hepsy Higgins inclined to mate, Or Dorcas Eastman prone to invest In Cupid's bonds, they could find their fate In the bootless bard of Crockery Quest.
For they've heaps of trumpery--so have the rest Of those spinsters whose ware I'd like to own; You can see why I say with such certain zest, "These do I love, and these alone.

More great poems below...

Written by Eugene Field |

Our biggest fish

 When in the halcyon days of old, I was a little tyke,
I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like;
And oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraught
When I rambled home at nightfall with the puny string I'd caught!
And, oh, the indignation and the valor I'd display
When I claimed that all the biggest fish I'd caught had got away!

Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines,
And many times the treacherous reeds would foil my just designs;
But whether hooks or lines or reeds were actually to blame,
I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same--
I never lost a little fish--yes, I am free to say
It always was the biggest fish I caught that got away.
And so it was, when later on, I felt ambition pass From callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass; I found it quite convenient, when the beauties wouldn't bite And I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night, To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gay How the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away.
And really, fish look bigger than they are before they are before they're caught-- When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut, When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throat And he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat! Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I say That it always is the biggest fish you catch that gets away! 'T 'is even so in other things--yes, in our greedy eyes The biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize; We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life-- Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife; And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray, We own the biggest fish we've caught are those that got away.
I would not have it otherwise; 't is better there should be Much bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea; For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game-- May by his arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same; Which, having done, perchance he'll bless the man who's proud to say That the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away.

Written by Eugene Field |

The duel

 The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(I wasn't there; I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate!) The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!" And the calico cat replied "mee-ow!" The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place Up with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (Now mind: I'm only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true!) The Chinese plate looked very blue, And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!" But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that, Employing every tooth and claw In the awfullest way you ever saw - And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! (Don't fancy I exaggerate - I got my news from the Chinese plate!) Next morning, where the two had sat They found no trace of dog or cat; And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole that pair away! But the truth about the cat and pup Is this: they ate each other up! Now what do you really think of that! (The old Dutch clock it told me so, And that is how I came to know.

Written by Eugene Field |

The Sugar-Plum Tree

 Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?
'T is a marvel of great renown!
It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;
The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet
(As those who have tasted it say)
That good little children have only to eat
Of that fruit to be happy next day.
When you 've got to the tree, you would have a hard time To capture the fruit which I sing; The tree is so tall that no person could climb To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below--- And this is the way you contrive to get at Those sugar-plums tempting you so: You say but the word to that gingerbread dog And he barks with such terrible zest That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, As her swelling proportions attest.
And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around From this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground--- Hurrah for that chocolate cat! There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes, With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away of the treasure that rains As much as your apron can hold! So come, little child, cuddle closer to me In your dainty white nightcap and gown, And I 'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

Written by Eugene Field |



When to the dreary greenwood gloam
Winfreda's husband strode that day,
The fair Winfreda bode at home
To toil the weary time away;
"While thou art gone to hunt," said she,
"I'll brew a goodly sop for thee.
" Lo, from a further, gloomy wood, A hungry wolf all bristling hied And on the cottage threshold stood And saw the dame at work inside; And, as he saw the pleasing sight, He licked his fangs so sharp and white.
Now when Winfreda saw the beast, Straight at the grinning wolf she ran, And, not affrighted in the least, She hit him with her cooking pan, And as she thwacked him on the head-- "Scat! scat!" the fair Winfreda said.
The hills gave answer to their din-- The brook in fear beheld the sight.
And all that bloody field within Wore token of Winfreda's might.
The wolf was very loath to stay-- But, oh! he could not get away.
Winfreda swept him o'er the wold And choked him till his gums were blue, And till, beneath her iron hold, His tongue hung out a yard or two, And with his hair the riven ground Was strewn for many leagues around.
They fought a weary time that day, And seas of purple blood were shed, Till by Winfreda's cunning lay That awful wolf all limp and dead; Winfreda saw him reel and drop-- Then back she went to brewing sop.
So when the husband came at night From bootless chase, cold, gaunt, and grim, Great was that Saxon lord's delight To find the sop dished up for him; And as he ate, Winfreda told How she had laid the wolf out cold.
The good Winfreda of those days Is only "pretty Birdie" now-- Sickly her soul and weak her ways-- And she, to whom we Saxons bow, Leaps on a bench and screams with fright If but a mouse creeps into sight.

Written by Eugene Field |

The dolls wooing

 The little French doll was a dear little doll
Tricked out in the sweetest of dresses;
Her eyes were of hue
A most delicate blue
And dark as the night were her tresses;
Her dear little mouth was fluted and red,
And this little French doll was so very well bred
That whenever accosted her little mouth said
"Mamma! mamma!"

The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg,
Had once been a handsome young fellow;
But now he appeared
Rather frowzy and bleared
In his torn regimentals of yellow;
Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he lay
In the little toy cart near the window one day
And heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say:
"Mamma! mamma!"

He listened so long and he listened so hard
That anon he grew ever so tender,
For it's everywhere known
That the feminine tone
Gets away with all masculine gender!
He up and he wooed her with soldierly zest
But all she'd reply to the love he professed
Were these plaintive words (which perhaps you have guessed):
"Mamma! mamma!"

Her mother - a sweet little lady of five -
Vouchsafed her parental protection,
And although stockinet
Wasn't blue-blooded, yet
She really could make no objection!
So soldier and dolly were wedded one day,
And a moment ago, as I journeyed that way,
I'm sure that I heard a wee baby voice say:
"Mamma! mamma!"

Written by Eugene Field |


 When I remark her golden hair
Swoon on her glorious shoulders,
I marvel not that sight so rare
Doth ravish all beholders;
For summon hence all pretty girls
Renowned for beauteous tresses,
And you shall find among their curls
There's none so fair as Jessie's.
And Jessie's eyes are, oh, so blue And full of sweet revealings-- They seem to look you through and through And read your inmost feelings; Nor black emits such ardent fires, Nor brown such truth expresses-- Admit it, all ye gallant squires-- There are no eyes like Jessie's.
Her voice (like liquid beams that roll From moonland to the river) Steals subtly to the raptured soul, Therein to lie and quiver; Or falls upon the grateful ear With chaste and warm caresses-- Ah, all concede the truth (who hear): There's no such voice as Jessie's.
Of other charms she hath such store All rivalry excelling, Though I used adjectives galore, They'd fail me in the telling; But now discretion stays my hand-- Adieu, eyes, voice, and tresses.
Of all the husbands in the land There's none so fierce as Jessie's.

Written by Eugene Field |

Apple-Pie and Cheese

 Full many a sinful notion
Conceived of foreign powers
Has come across the ocean
To harm this land of ours;
And heresies called fashions
Have modesty effaced,
And baleful, morbid passions
Corrupt our native taste.
O tempora! O mores! What profanations these That seek to dim the glories Of apple-pie and cheese! I'm glad my education Enables me to stand Against the vile temptation Held out on every hand; Eschewing all the tittles With vanity replete, I'm loyal to the victuals Our grandsires used to eat! I'm glad I've got three willing boys To hang around and tease Their mother for the filling joys Of apple-pie and cheese! Your flavored creams and ices And your dainty angel-food Are mighty fine devices To regale the dainty dude; Your terrapin and oysters, With wine to wash 'em down, Are just the thing for roisters When painting of the town; No flippant, sugared notion Shall my appetite appease, Or bate my soul's devotion To apple-pie and cheese! The pie my Julia makes me (God bless her Yankee ways!) On memory's pinions takes me To dear Green Mountain days; And seems like I see Mother Lean on the window-sill, A-handin' me and brother What she knows 'll keep us still; And these feelings are so grateful, Says I, "Julia, if you please, I'll take another plateful Of that apple-pie and cheese!" And cheese! No alien it, sir, That's brought across the sea,-- No Dutch antique, nor Switzer, Nor glutinous de Brie; There's nothing I abhor so As mawmets of this ilk-- Give me the harmless morceau That's made of true-blue milk! No matter what conditions Dyspeptic come to feaze, The best of all physicians Is apple-pie and cheese! Though ribalds may decry 'em, For these twin boons we stand, Partaking thrice per diem Of their fulness out of hand; No enervating fashion Shall cheat us of our right To gratify our passion With a mouthful at a bite! We'll cut it square or bias, Or any way we please, And faith shall justify us When we carve our pie and cheese! De gustibus, 't is stated, Non disputandum est.
Which meaneth, when translated, That all is for the best.
So let the foolish choose 'em The vapid sweets of sin, I will not disabuse 'em Of the heresy they're in; But I, when I undress me Each night, upon my knees Will ask the Lord to bless me With apple-pie and cheese!

Written by Eugene Field |

The fly-away horse

 Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse -
Perhaps you have seen him before;
Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept

Through the moonlight that floats on the floor.
For it's only at night, when the stars twinkle bright, That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane, Is up on his heels and away! The Moon in the sky, As he gallopeth by, Cries: "Oh! what a marvelous sight!" And the Stars in dismay Hide their faces away In the lap of old Grandmother Night.
It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse Speedeth ever and ever away - Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains, Over streamlets that sing at their play; And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he, While the ships they go sailing below, And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast Adjudge him some portent of woe.
"What ho there!" they cry, As he flourishes by With a whisk of his beautiful tail; And the fish in the sea Are as scared as can be, From the nautilus up to the whale! And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those faraway lands You little folk dream of at night - Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow, And corn-fields with popcorn are white; And the beasts in the wood are ever so good To children who visit them there - What glory astride of a lion to ride, Or to wrestle around with a bear! The monkeys, they say: "Come on, let us play," And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees: While the parrots, that cling To the peanut-vines, sing Or converse with comparative ease! Off! scamper to bed - you shall ride him tonight! For, as soon as you've fallen asleep, With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away Over forest and hillside and deep! But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear In those beautiful lands over there, Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his faraway course With the wee one consigned to his care.
Then grandma will cry In amazement: "Oh, my!" And she'll think it could never be so; And only we two Shall know it is true - You and I, little precious! shall know!

Written by Eugene Field |

Dr. sam


Down in the old French quarter,
Just out of Rampart street,
I wend my way
At close of day
Unto the quaint retreat
Where lives the Voodoo Doctor
By some esteemed a sham,
Yet I'll declare there's none elsewhere
So skilled as Doctor Sam
With the claws of a deviled crawfish,
The juice of the prickly prune,
And the quivering dew
From a yarb that grew
In the light of a midnight moon!

I never should have known him
But for the colored folk
That here obtain
And ne'er in vain
That wizard's art invoke;
For when the Eye that's Evil
Would him and his'n damn,
The negro's grief gets quick relief
Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam.
With the caul of an alligator, The plume of an unborn loon, And the poison wrung From a serpent's tongue By the light of a midnight moon! In all neurotic ailments I hear that he excels, And he insures Immediate cures Of weird, uncanny spells; The most unruly patient Gets docile as a lamb And is freed from ill by the potent skill Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam; Feathers of strangled chickens, Moss from the dank lagoon, And plasters wet With spider sweat In the light of a midnight moon! They say when nights are grewsome And hours are, oh! so late, Old Sam steals out And hunts about For charms that hoodoos hate! That from the moaning river And from the haunted glen He silently brings what eerie things Give peace to hoodooed men:-- The tongue of a piebald 'possum, The tooth of a senile 'coon, The buzzard's breath that smells of death, And the film that lies On a lizard's eyes In the light of a midnight moon!

Written by Eugene Field |

To a Usurper

 Aha! a traitor in the camp,
A rebel strangely bold,--
A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp,
Not more than four years old!

To think that I, who've ruled alone
So proudly in the past,
Should be ejected from my throne
By my own son at last!

He trots his treason to and fro,
As only babies can,
And says he'll be his mamma's beau
When he's a "gweat, big man"!

You stingy boy! you've always had
A share in mamma's heart;
Would you begrudge your poor old dad
The tiniest little part?

That mamma, I regret to see,
Inclines to take your part,--
As if a dual monarchy
Should rule her gentle heart!

But when the years of youth have sped,
The bearded man, I trow,
Will quite forget he ever said
He'd be his mamma's beau.
Renounce your treason, little son, Leave mamma's heart to me; For there will come another one To claim your loyalty.
And when that other comes to you, God grant her love may shine Through all your life, as fair and true As mamma's does through mine! 1885.

Written by Eugene Field |

The bow-leg boy

 Who should come up the road one day
But the doctor-man in his two-wheel shay!
And he whoaed his horse and he cried "Ahoy!
I have brought you folks a bow-leg boy!
Such a cute little boy!
Such a funny little boy!
Such a dear little bow-leg boy!"

He took out his box and he opened it wide,
And there was the bow-leg boy inside!
And when they saw that cunning little mite,
They cried in a chorus expressive of delight:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"

Observing a strict geometrical law,
They cut out his panties with a circular saw;
Which gave such a stress to his oval stride
That the people he met invariably cried:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"

They gave him a wheel and away he went
Speeding along to his heart's content;
And he sits so straight and he pedals so strong
That the folks all say as he bowls along:
"What a cute little boy!
What a funny little boy!
What a dear little bow-leg boy!"

With his eyes aflame and his cheeks aglow,
He laughs "aha" and he laughs "oho";
And the world is filled and thrilled with the joy
Of that jolly little human, the bow-leg boy--
The cute little boy!
The funny little boy!
The dear little bow-leg boy!

If ever the doctor-man comes my way
With his wonderful box in his two-wheel shay,
I 'll ask for the treasure I'd fain possess--
Now, honest Injun! can't you guess?
Why, a cute little boy--
A funny little boy--
A dear little bow-leg boy!

Written by Eugene Field |

The limitations of youth

 I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a fiery hoss
Way out into the big an' boundless west;
I'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across,
An' I'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest!
With my pistols at my side,
I would roam the prarers wide,
An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride--
If I darst; but I darsen't!

I'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there,
An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw!
I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair,
An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw!
I'd chase the pizen snakes
An' the 'pottimus that makes
His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes--
If I darst; but I darsen't!

I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue,
With a big black flag aflyin' overhead;
I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew
An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red!
With my cutlass in my hand
On the quarterdeck I'd stand
And to deeds of heroism I'd incite my pirut band--
If I darst; but I darsen't!

And, if I darst, I'd lick my pa for the times that he's licked me!
I'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too!
I'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea,
An' I'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through!
You bet! I'd run away
From my lessons to my play,
An' I'd shoo the hens, an' tease the cat, an' kiss the girls all day--
If I darst; but I darsen't!