Field, Eugene The Poems of Eugene Field Charles Scribner's Sons, New York, 1910, Cloth, , First Edition, Very Good /No Jacket
553 pp. P.O. signature dated 1910 ffep. TEG. Green cloth, gilt decoration on front board, gilt lettering on spine. Gilt is bright cloth is fairly clean. Top and bottom of spine and corners have slight rubbing. Pages are clean and bright save for the TP, where a 2X4 newspaper clipping about Field, 'Birthday Bio Briefs' as been laid in causing the inevitable shadow.
The Lucile project is an attempt to recover the publishing history of a single 19th century book. Owen Meredith's Lucile was first published in 1860, by Chapman & Hall in England and as a Ticknor & Fields "Blue & Gold" in the United States. It was reviewed in the New York Times, as well as other newspapers and magazines. In England, it saw only a handful of editions over the next 40 years. In the United States, however, it remained in print until 1938, last offered as a surviving title in Burt's Home Library remaindered to Blue Ribbon Books in 1936. It went out of print in 1938.
The Center for Book Arts, a not-for-profit organization founded in 1974, offers over 100 classes and workshops in bookbinding, letterpress printing, paper marbling, typography, and related fields. The Center has mounted over 140 exhibitions during the last 25 years.
This site is dedicated to reprinting the works of Annie Adams Fields in accessible annotated editions. It was begun as a "spin-off" from the Sarah Orne Jewett Text Project.—by Terry Heller
Barbara Allen's Cruelty
In Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,
Made every youth crye, wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merrye month of May,
When greene buds they were swellin,
Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then,
To the town, where shee was dwellin;
You must come to my master deare,
Giff your name be Barbara Allen.
For death is printed on his face,
And ore his hart is stealin:
Then haste away to comfort him,
O lovelye Barbara Allen.
Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin,
Yet little better shall he bee,
For bonny Barbara Allen.
So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
Yong man, I think y'are dying.
He turnd his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
O lovely maid, come pity mee,
Ime on my death-bed lying.
If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin:
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell, sayd Barbara Allen.
He turnd his face unto the wall,
As deadlye pangs he fell in:
Adieu! adieu! adieu to you all,
Adieu to Barbara Allen.
As she was walking ore the fields,
She heard the bell a knellin;
And every stroke did seem to saye,
Unworthy Barbara Allen.
She turnd her bodye round about,
And spied the corps a coming:
Laye downe, laye downe the corps, she sayd,
That I may look upon him.
With scornful eye she looked downe,
Her cheeke with laughter swellin;
That all her friends cryd out amaine,
Unworthye Barbara Allen.
When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe,
O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to morrowe.
Hard harted creature him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:
O that I had beene more kind to him,
When he was live and neare me!
She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg'd to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the daye,
That she did ere denye him.
Farewell, she sayd, ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.