Eugene Field

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

Eugene Field Poems

121. To Aristius Fuscus 4/9/2010
122. Be My Sweetheart 4/9/2010
123. Dead Roses 4/9/2010
124. Beranger's My Last Song Perhaps (January 1814) 1/1/2004
125. Horace To Pyrrha 1/1/2004
126. To Robin Goodfellow 1/1/2004
127. Horace To Melpomene 1/1/2004
128. Horace I, 31. 4/9/2010
129. The Old Homestead 4/9/2010
130. Christmas Eve 1914 4/9/2010
131. Mother And Sphinx 1/1/2004
132. Armenian Folk-Song--The Partridge 4/9/2010
133. The Ballad Of The Taylor Pup 4/9/2010
134. Googly-Go0 1/1/2004
135. The Two Little Skeezucks 1/1/2004
136. Guess 4/9/2010
137. The Reconciliation 4/9/2010
138. Horace I, 4. 4/9/2010
139. Beranger's 4/9/2010
140. Wine, Women, And Song 4/9/2010
141. The Two Coffins 4/9/2010
142. My Garden 4/9/2010
143. In New Orleans 4/9/2010
144. The Great Journalist In Spain 4/9/2010
145. Sailor And Shade 4/9/2010
146. Jennie 4/9/2010
147. The Peter-Bird 1/1/2004
148. Hugo's "Pool In The Forest" 1/1/2004
149. A Democratic Hymn 4/9/2010
150. Lyman, Frederick, And Jim 1/1/2004
151. Mary Smith 1/1/2004
152. To Emma Abbott 1/1/2004
153. To Cinna 1/1/2004
154. Dear Old London 4/9/2010
155. Jessie 1/1/2004
156. Prof. Vere De Blaw 1/1/2004
157. A Paraphrase, By Dr. I.W. 4/9/2010
158. A Paraphrase, By Chaucer 4/9/2010
159. A Roman Winter-Piece 4/9/2010
160. A Dream Of Sunshine 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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