January 13, 1864: Death of Stephen Foster.

Larry Kaplan wrote, in the introduction to his song "Dear Friends and Gentle Hearts," "Stephen Foster was only thirty-eight years old when he died, impoverished and alone, in New York City. In his pocket at the time of his death was a small piece of paper containing the first few lyrics of, perhaps, his next song. Foster lived and wrote music in a time when America as a nation was desperately trying to define (or redefine) its own identity, a time of intense nationalism, and yet a time of civil war. Perhaps more than any other popular musician of his time, he helped to shape some of that identity."

DEAR FRIENDS AND GENTLE HEARTS
by Larry Kaplan

Down at Bellevue Hospital,
Out on those nameless wards,
Tonight a young man passed away
Alone, without a word.
Brought there from a boarding house
On the Bowery downtown,
And on his bed a list of things
The nurses there had found.
A coat, a hat, his pants, a vest,
And a beat-up pair of shoes,
And, in his pocket, signed by him,
A dollar I.O.U.;
And a slip of folded paper
Torn off from a paper bag:
The first words of another song
This whole world might have had.

CHORUS (after each verse):
"Dear friends and gentle hearts ... "
Wherever your last songs may be,
Are they lost out in America
Between the centuries?
Are the melodies still waiting
For the ones who need to hear,
Though the piano halls and minstrel shows
Have faded through the years?

Well, the hospital had sent for me,
But no more would they do,
My name and address taken from
Poor Stephen's I.O.U.
They said "He's just a vagabond;
So many more like him.
They spend the last few cents they have
On poor man's rum and gin.
But hard times in America
Are hard times for us all.
Some folks bide for better days;
Some must take the fall.
Some can turn to poetry,
Or lose themselves in song;
Some set out to change the world,
Then lose the path they're on.

So, yes, I knew this gentleman;
Perhaps you've heard the cheers
When Mr. Foster graced this country's
Finest halls for years.
And he led us in the choruses
This whole great nation knew,
But he never recognized his worth
Or what his songs could do.
Now pride brought down by poverty
Is such a tragic thing;
No matter who the man may be,
It steals most precious things.
It takes the faith to know yourself;
It robs the will to try.
But, if it spares your poetry
The music never dies.

Though we seek mirth and beauty, and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door.
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say,
"Oh, hard times, come again no more."

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