By Edgar Albert Guest
Who has a troop of romping youth
About his parlour floor,
Who nightly hears a round of cheers,
When he is at the door,
Who is attacked on every side
By eager little hands
That reach to tug his grizzled mug,
The wealth of earth commands.
Who knows the joys of girls and boys,
His lads and lassies, too,
Who’s pounced upon and bounced upon
When his day’s work is through,
Whose trousers know the gentle tug
Of some glad little tot,
The baby of his crew of love,
Is wealthier than a lot.
Oh, be he poor and sore distressed
And weary with the fight,
If with a whoop his healthy troop
Run, welcoming at night,
And kisses greet him at the end
Of all his toiling grim,
With what is best in life he’s blest
And rich men envy him.
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