Eugene Field

(2 September 1850 - 4 November 1895 / St Louis / Missouri / United States)

Eugene Field Poems

1. To Ligurinus 4/9/2010
2. To Lydia 4/9/2010
3. To M.L. Gray, 4/9/2010
4. To Maecenas 4/9/2010
5. To Mary Field French 4/9/2010
6. To Mother Venus 4/9/2010
7. To Pompeius Varus 4/9/2010
8. To Quintus Dellius 4/9/2010
9. Two Idylls From Bion The Smyrnean 4/9/2010
10. A Christmas Wish 12/14/2015
11. To Venus 4/9/2010
12. To Quintus Hirpinus 4/9/2010
13. To The Fountain Of Bandusia 4/9/2010
14. Cobbler And Stork 3/31/2012
15. Ganderfeather's Gift 3/31/2012
16. Gold And Love For Dearie 3/31/2012
17. Jewish Lullaby 3/31/2012
18. Armenian Lullaby 3/31/2012
19. Uhland's 4/9/2010
20. John Smith 4/9/2010
21. Father's Letter 3/31/2012
22. Ashes On The Slide 3/31/2012
23. Bambino (Corsican Lullaby) 3/31/2012
24. The Conversazzhony 1/1/2004
25. Uhland's White Stag 4/9/2010
26. Ballad Of The Jelly-Cake 3/31/2012
27. To Leuconoee 4/9/2010
28. To John J. Knickerbocker, Jr. 4/9/2010
29. Doctor Rabelais 4/9/2010
30. Béranger's "Broken Fiddle" 1/1/2004
31. Chrystmasse Of Olde 1/1/2004
32. Clare Market 4/9/2010
33. Consistency 4/9/2010
34. Christmas Hymn 4/9/2010
35. Envoy 1/1/2004
36. Alaskan Balladry 4/9/2010
37. Christmas Morning 4/9/2010
38. Beard And Baby 4/9/2010
39. Bethlehem-Town 4/9/2010
40. The Convalescent Gripster 4/9/2010
Best Poem of Eugene Field

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamed of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue,--
Oh, the years are many, the ...

Read the full of Little Boy Blue

Picnic-Time

It's June ag'in, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy
That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy;
For, every June, the Sunday-schools at picnics may be seen,
Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin' green";
Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs, and ants,
An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to meetin' pants.
It's June ag'in, an' with it all what happiness is mine -
There's goin' to be a picnic, an' I'm goin' to jine!

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