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Title: To Dr. F. W. R.
Author: Eugene Field [
More Titles by Field]
If I were rich enough to buy
A case of wine (though I abhor it),
I'd send a quart of extra dry
And willingly get trusted for it.
But, lackaday! You know that I'm
As poor as Job's historic turkey--
In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme,
An honest gift though somewhat jerky.
This is your silver wedding day--
You didn't mean to let me know it!
And yet your smiles and raiments gay
Beyond all peradventure show it!
By all you say and do it's clear
A birdling in your heart is singing,
And everywhere you go you hear
The old-time bridal bells a-ringing.
Ah, well, God grant that these dear chimes
May mind you of the sweetness only
Of those far distant, callow times
When you were Benedick and lonely--
And when an angel blessed your lot--
For angel is your helpmeet, truly--
And when, to share the joy she brought,
Came other little angels, duly.
So here's a health to you and wife--
Long may you mock the Reaper's warning,
And may the evening of your life
In rising sons renew the morning;
May happiness and peace and love
Come with each morrow to caress ye,
And when you're done with earth, above--
God bless ye, dear old friend--God bless ye!
[The end]
Eugene Field's poem: To Dr. F. W. R.
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