Rich Who has a troop of romping youth About his parlor 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. ~Edgar Guest~ |