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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=390948" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mary smith</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith,<br>There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith;<br>And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl,<br>And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl;<br>Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place,<br>Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face,<br>And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow<br>I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I saw her home from singing school--she warbled like a bird.<br>A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard.<br>She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass,<br>And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place;<br>The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance,<br>For Mary's upper register made every heart-string dance;<br>And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I'd have you know<br>I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary's beau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On Friday nights I'd drop around to make my weekly call,<br>And though I came to visit her, I'd have to see 'em all.<br>With Mary's mother sitting here and Mary's father there,<br>The conversation never flagged so far as I'm aware;<br>Sometimes I'd hold her worsted, sometimes we'd play at games,<br>Sometimes dissect the apples which we'd named each other's names.<br>Oh how I loathed the shrill-toned clock that told me when to go--<br>'Twas ten o'clock at half-past eight when I was Mary's beau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now there was Luther Baker--because he'd come of age<br>And thought himself some pumpkins because he drove the stage--<br>He fancied he could cut me out; but Mary was my friend--<br>Elsewise I'm sure the issue had had a tragic end.<br>For Luther Baker was a man I never could abide,<br>And, when it came to Mary, either he or I had died.<br>I merely cite this instance incidentally to show<br>That I was quite in earnest when I was Mary's beau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How often now those sights, those pleasant sights, recur again:<br>The little township that was all the world I knew of then--<br>The meeting-house upon the hill, the tavern just beyond,<br>Old deacon Packard's general store, the sawmill by the pond,<br>The village elms I vainly sought to conquer in my quest<br>Of that surpassing trophy, the golden oriole's nest.<br>And, last of all those visions that come back from long ago,<br>The pretty face that thrilled my soul when I was Mary's beau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hush, gentle wife, there is no need a pang should vex your heart--<br>'T is many years since fate ordained that she and I should part;<br>To each a true, maturer love came in good time, and yet<br>It brought not with its nobler grace the power to forget.<br>And would you fain begrudge me now the sentimental joy<br>That comes of recollections of my sparkings when a boy?<br>I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack,'t would show<br>That it had predilections when I was Mary's beau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place,<br>God grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face--<br>God grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day,<br>With faltering step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray;<br>But thoughts that picture me as fair and full of life and glee<br>As we were in the olden times--as you shall always be.<br>Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy you used to know<br>When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was Mary's beau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes<br>Upon one little lonely grave that in your bosom lies;<br>For in that cradle sleeps a child who was so fair to see<br>God yearned to have unto Himself the joy she brought to me;<br>And bid your winds sing soft and low the song of other days,<br>When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our pleasant ways--<br>Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago,<br>Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary's beau.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Eugene+Field">Eugene Field</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=390948" data-title="Mary smith de Eugene Field" data-description="Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith,
There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith;
And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl,
And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl;
Still..."></div>
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