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Title: Hoosier Lyrics Paraphrased
Author: Eugene Field [
More Titles by Field]
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!"
[The end]
Eugene Field's poem: Hoosier Lyrics Paraphrased
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