AMUSEMENT OF IDLE HOURSTHE POEMS
OF
S. ATTWOOD BUTTERFIELD, M. D.
"Variety is the Spice of Life."
INDIANAPOLIS, IND. C. S. BUTTERFIELD, PRINTER AND STATIONER. 1887.
TO ARRAMINTA, MY DEAR, DEVOTED WIFE, WHO HAS BEEN MY
FAITHFUL
COMPANION FOR FORTY-FOUR YEARS, THIS
LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR.
Errata.
- Page 48, second line from top, for sugar read auger.
- Page 94, eleventh line from top read the call for to call.
- Page 99, tenth line from top, read hustled for huried.
- Page 101, eleventh line from top, read strown for storm.
- Page 112, fifth line from top, read as for us.
- Page 117, sixth line from top, read I before mean.
- Page 152, second line from top, read thought for through.
- Page 160, last word on the page read away.
- Page 167, ninth line from top, strike out the before dread.
- Page 170, seventh line from bottom, read her before host.
- Page 172, first line from top, read eternal for forever.
- Page 174, ninth line from bottom, add the before boistrous.
- Page 178, second line from top, read of for oft.
- Page 215, top line read all before the.
- Page 243, sixth line from top, read childish before glee.
- Page 252, ninth line from bottom, read glamour for glimmer.
- Page 263, bottom line add S. A. B.
- Page 264, bottom line read and before cattle.
- Page 316, twelfth line from top, strike out the before day.
My Portrait.
- Ah, who in after coming years
- Will gaze upon this silent face,
- That's seen full share of smiles and tears--
- And will they there an index trace
- Of what the thoughts of him have been
- Whose countenance is here displayed ?
- And will one sign of thought be seen,
- Or line by care or passion made?
- And will one tear of friendship start
- Unbidden from the gazer's eye ?
- And will there well up from the heart
- One fond regret, one tender sigh ?
- I know 'tis but the common lot,
- However diff'rent fate we crave,
- 'To be by life-long friends forgot,
- When once we 're hidden in the grave.
- Perhaps 'tis best it should be so,
- Else life would be a dreary waste,
- Where we no joy could ever know,
- But tempted be its end to haste.
- This picture's left for what it's worth
- To those who to his heart were dear;
- 'Tis all that's left to them on earth
- Of one who loved them best while here.
PREFACE,
- "Of all the fools, who with ill stars are curst,
- Sure scribbling fools, called poets, are the worst,
- For they're a set of fools which fortune makes,
- And after she had made them fools, forsakes."
- "Still many a sad and weary heart
- That treads a noiseless way apart,
- Has blest the humble poet's name,
- For fellowship refined and free,
- In meek wild-flowers of poesy
- That ask'd no higher fame!"
In launching this little waif on the great sea of poesy, strewn as it Is with the debris of the numerous wrecks that have pre- ceded it, I make no pretention to anything more than to com- ply with the request of a few friends, whose love is to me of more value than the gold of Ophir or the diamonds of Golconda; but if what I have written here shall cause one human being to be better or happier I will feel myself well rewarded for my labor, which has been resorted to only as a favorite amuse- ment for idle hours, I being so constituted as to have no relish for what the world is pleased to call amusement.
If some of these poems may seem frivolous or humorous, it must be remembered that--
- "A little nonsense now and then,
- Is relished by the best of men."
Or if any one who reads this little book shall wonder why I have written so much about death and heaven, my only apol- ogy is the fact that I know I shall soon fall a victim to the one, and hope then to become a citizen of the other.
THE AUTHOR.
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