Poetry of Edgar Guest

The March o’ Man

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:51:50 +0000

Down to work o’ mornings, an’ back to home at
nights,
Down to hours o’ labor, an’ home to sweet
delights ;
Down to care an’ trouble, an’ home to love an’
rest,
With every day a good one, an’ every evening
blest.
Down to dreary dollars, an’ back to home to play,
From love to work an’ back to love, so slips the
day away.
From babies back to business an 3 back to babes
again,
From parting kiss to welcome kiss, this marks
the march o’ men.
Some care between our laughter, a few hours
filled with strife,
A time to stand on duty, then home to babes
and wife;
The bugle sounds o’ mornings to call us to the
fray,
But sweet an’ low ’tis love that calls us home at
close o’ day.

Father’s Chore

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:51:31 +0000

My Pa can hit his thumbnail with a hammer and
keep still;
He can cut himself while shaving an’ not
swear ;
If a ladder slips beneath him an’ he gets a nasty
spill
He can smile as though he really didn’t care.
But the pan beneath the ice-box when he goes
to empty that
Then a sound-proof room the children have
to hunt ;
For we have a sad few minutes in our very
pleasant flat
When the water in it splashes down his front.
My Pa believes his temper should be all the time
controlled ;
He doesn’t rave .at every little thing;
When his collar-button underneath the chiffonier
has rolled
A snatch of merry ragtime he will sing.
But the pan beneath the ice box when to empty
that he goes
As he stoops to drag it out we hear a grunt ;
From the kitchen comes a rumble, an’ then every
body knows
That he splashed the water in it down his front.
Now the distance from the ice box to the sink’s
not very far
I’m sure it isn’t over twenty feet
But though very short the journey, it is long
enough for Pa
As he travels it disaster grim to meet.
And it’s seldom that he makes it without accident,
although
In the summer time it is his nightly stunt ;
And he says a lot of language that no gentleman
should know
When the water in it splashes down his front.

A Lesson from Golf

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:51:05 +0000

He couldn’t use his driver any better on the tee
Than the chap that he was licking, who just
happened to be me ;
I could hit them with a brassie just as straight
and just as far,
But I piled up several sevens while he made a
few in par;
And he trimmed me to a finish, and I know the
reason why:
He could keep his temper better when he dubbed
a shot than I.
His mashie stroke is choppy, without any follow
through ;
I doubt if he will ever, on a short hole, cop a
two,
But his putts are straight and deadly, and he
doesn’t even frown
When he’s tried to hole a long one and just fails
to get it down.
On the fourteenth green I faded; there he put
me on the shelf,
And it’s not to his discredit when I say I licked
myself.
He never whined or whimpered when a shot of
his went wrong;
Never kicked about his troubles, but just plodded
right along.
When he flubbed an easy iron, though I knew
that he was vexed,
He merely shrugged his shoulders, and then
coolly played the next,
While I flew into a frenzy over every dub I
made
And was loud in my complaining at the dismal
game I played.
Golf is like the game of living; it will show up
what you are;
If you take your troubles badly you will never
play to par.
You may be a fine performer when your skies
are bright and blue
But disaster is the acid that shall prove the worth
of you;
So just meet your disappointments with a cheery
sort of grin,
For the man who keeps his temper is the man
that’s sure to win.

The Right Family

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:50:34 +0000

With time our notions allus change,
An’ years make old idees seem strange
Take Mary there time was when she
Thought one child made a family,
An’ when our eldest, Jim, was born
She used to say, both night an’ morn’:
” One little one to love an’ keep,
To guard awake, an’ watch asleep;
To bring up right an’ lead him through
Life’s path is all we ought to do.”
Two years from then our Jennie came,
But Mary didn’t talk the same ;
” Now that’s just right,” she said to me,
” We’ve got the proper family
A boy an’ girl, God sure is good ;
It seems as though He understood
That I’ve been hopin’ every way
To have a little girl some day ;
Sometimes I’ve prayed the whole night through
One ain’t enough; we needed two.”
Then as the months went rollin on,
One day the stork brought little John,
An’ Mary smiled an’ said to me ;
” The proper family is three ;
Two boys, a girl to romp an’ play
Jus’ work enough to fill the day.
I never had enough to do,
The months that we had only two;
Three’s jus’ right, pa, we don’t want more.”
Still time went on an’ we had four.
An’ that was years ago, I vow,
An’ we have six fine children now;
An’ Mary’s plumb forgot the day
She used to sit an’ sweetly say
That one child was enough for her
To love an’ give the proper care;
One, two or three or four or five
Why, goodness gracious, sakes alive,
If God should send her ten to-night,
She’d vow her fam’ly was jus’ right!

Tommy Atkins’ Way

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:49:59 +0000

He was battle-scarred and ugly with the marks
of shot and shell,
And we knew that British Tommy had a stirring
tale to tell,
So we asked him where he got it and what dis
arranged his face,
And he answered, blushing scarlet : ” In a nawsty
little place ”
There were medals on his jacket, but he wouldn’t
tell us why.
” A bit lucky, gettin’ this one,” was the sum of
his reply.
He had fought a horde of Prussians with his
back against the wall,
And he told us, when we questioned : ” H’it
was nothing arfter h’all.”
Not a word of what he’d suffered, not a word
of what he’d seen,
Not a word about the fury of the hell through
which he’d been.
All he said was : ” When you’re cornered, h’and
you’ve got no plyce to go,
You’ve just got to stand up to it! You cawn’t
‘elp yourself, you know.
” H’it was just a bit unpleasant, when the shells
were droppin’ thick,”
And he tapped his leather leggins with his little
bamboo stick.
” What did H’l do ? Nothing, really ! Nothing
more than just my share;
Some one h’else would gladly do it, but H’l ‘ap-
pened to be there.”
When this sturdy British Tommy quits the battle
fields of earth
And St. Peter asks his spirit to recount his deeds
of worth,
I fancy I can hear him, with his curious English
drawl,
Saying : ” Nothing, nothing really, that’s worth
mentioning at h’all.”

The Doubtful To-Morrow

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:49:35 +0000

Whenever I walk through God’s Acres of Dead
I wonder how often the mute voices said :
” I will do a kind deed or will lighten a sorrow
Or rise to a sacrifice splendid to-morrow.”
I wonder how many fine thoughts unexpressed
Were lost to the world when they went to their
rest;
I wonder what beautiful deeds they’d have done
If they had but witnessed to-morrow’s bright sun.
Oh, if the dead grieve, it is not for their fate,
For death comes to all of us early or late,
But their sighs of regret and their burdens of
sorrow
Are born of the joys they’d have scattered to
morrow.
Do the friends they’d have cheered know the
thoughts of the dead?
Do they treasure to-day the last words that were
said?
What mem’ries would sweeten, what hearts cease
to burn,
If but for a day the dead friends could return!
We know not the hour that our summons shall
come ;
We know not the time that our voice shall be
dumb,
Yet even as they, to our ultimate sorrow,
We leave much that’s fine for that doubtful
to-morrow.

A Convalescin’ Woman

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:48:30 +0000

A convalescin’ woman does the strangest sort o’
things,
An’ it’s wonderful the courage that a little new
strength brings;
O, it’s never safe to leave her for an hour or two
alone,
Or you’ll find th’ doctor’s good work has been
quickly overthrown.
There’s that wife o’ mine, I reckon she’s a sample
of ‘em all;
She’s been mighty sick, I tell you, an’ to-day can
scarcely crawl,
But I left her jes’ this mornin’ while I fought
potater bugs,
An’ I got back home an’ caught her in the back
yard shakin’ rugs.
I ain’t often cross with Nellie, an’ I let her have
her way,
But it made me mad as thunder when I got back
home to-day
An’ found her doin’ labor that’d tax a big man’s
strength ;
An’ I guess I lost my temper, for I scolded her
at length,
Til I seen her teardrops fallin’ an’ she said : “I
couldn’t stand
To see those rugs so dirty, so I took ‘em all in
hand,
An’ it ain’t hurt me nuther see, I’m gettin’
strong again ”
An’ I said : ” Doggone it ! can’t ye leave sich
work as that f er men ? ”
Once I had her in a hospittle fer weeks an’ weeks
an’ weeks,
An’ she wasted most to nothin’, an’ th’ roses left
her cheeks;
An’ one night I feared I’d lose her; ’twas the
turnin’ point, I guess,
Coz th’ next day I remember that th’ doctor said :
“Success!”
Well, I brought her home an’ told her that for
two months she must stay
A-sittin’ in her rocker an’ jes’ watch th’ kids at
play.
An’ th’ first week she was patient, but I mind the
way I swore
On th’ day when I discovered ‘at she’d scrubbed
th’ kitchen floor.
O, you can’t keep wimmin quiet, an’ they ain’t
a bit like men ;
They’re hungerin’ every minute jes’ to get to
work again ;
An’ you’ve got to watch ‘em allus, when you
know they’re weak an’ ill,
Coz th’ minute that yer back is turned they’ll
labor fit to kill.
Th’ house ain’t cleaned to suit ‘em an’ they seem
to fret an’ fume
‘Less they’re busy doin’ somethin’ with a mop
or else a broom;
An’ it ain’t no use to scold ‘em an’ it ain’t no use
to swear,
Coz th’ next time they will do it jes’ the minute
you ain’t there.

The Change-Worker

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:47:25 +0000

A feller don’t start in to think of himself, an’
the part that he’s playin’ down here,
When there’s nobody lookin’ to him fer support,
an’ he don’t give a thought to next year.
His faults don’t seem big an’ his habits no worse
than a whole lot of others he knows,
An’ he don’t seem to care what his neighbors may
say, as heedlessly forward he goes.
He don’t stop to think if it’s wrong or it’s right;
with his speech he is careless or glib,
Till the minute the nurse lets him into the room
to see what’s asleep in the crib.
An’ then as he looks at that bundle o’ red, an’ the
wee little fingers an’ toes,
An’ he knows it’s his flesh an’ his blood that is
there, an’ will be just like him when it
grows,
It comes in a flash to a feller right then, there is
more here than pleasure or pelf,
An’ the sort of a man his baby will be is the sort
of a man he’s himself.
Then he kisses the mother an’ kisses the child, an’
goes out determined that he
Will endeavor to be just the sort of a man that
he’s wantin’ his baby to be.
A feller don’t think that it matters so much what
he does till a baby arrives;
He sows his wild oats an’ he has his gay fling an’
headlong in pleasure he dives ;
An’ a drink more or less doesn’t matter much
then, for life is a comedy gay,
But the moment a crib is put in the home, an’ a
baby has come there to stay,
He thinks of the things he has done in the past,
an’ it strikes him as hard as a blow,
That the path he has trod in the past is a path
that he don’t want his baby to go.
I ain’t much to preach, an’ I can’t just express
in the way that your clever men can
The thoughts that I think, but it seems to me now
that when God wants to rescue a man
From himself an’ the follies that harmless ap
pear, but which, under the surface, are
grim,
He summons the angel of infancy sweet, an’ sends
down a baby to him.
For in that way He opens his eyes to himself, and
He gives him the vision to see
That his duty’s to be just the sort of a man that
he’s wantin’ his baby to be.

His Example

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:46:35 +0000

There are little eyes upon you, and they’re watch
ing night and day;
There are little ears that quickly take in every
word you say;
There are little hands all eager to do everything
you do,
And a little boy that’s dreaming of the day he’ll
be like you.
You’re the little fellow’s idol, you’r* the wisest
of the wise;
In his little mind about you n^ suspicions ever
rise;
He believes in you devoutly, holds that all you
say and do
He will say and do in your way when he’s grown
up just like you.
Oh, it sometimes makes me shudder when I
hear my boy repeat
Some careless phrase I’ve uttered in the language
of the street;
And it sets my heart to grieving when some little
fault I see
And I know beyond all doubting that he picked
it up from me.
There’s a wide-eyed little fellow who believes
you’re always right,
And his ears are always open and he watches
day and night ;
You are setting an example every day in all
you do
For the little boy who’s waiting to grow up to
be like you.

The Common Joys

admin — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:46:05 +0000

These joys are free to all who live,
The rich and poor, the great and low:
The charms which kindness has to give,
The smiles which friendship may bestow,
The honor of a well-spent life,
The glory of a purpose true,
High courage in the stress of strife,
And peace when every task is through.
Nor class nor caste nor race nor creed,
Nor greater might can take away
The splendor of an honest deed.
Who nobly serves from day to day
Shall walk the road of life with pride,
With friends who recognize his worth,
For never are these joys denied
Unto the humblest man on earth.
Not all may rise to world-wide fame,
Not all may gather fortune’s gold,
Not all life’s luxuries may claim;
In differing ways success is told.
But all may know the peace of mind
Which comes from service brave and true ;
The poorest man can still be kind,
And nobly live till life is through.
These joys abound for one and all:
The pride of fearing no man’s scorn,
Of standing firm, where others fall,
Of bearing well what must be borne.
He that shall do an honest deed
Shall win an honest deed’s rewards;
For these, no matter race or creed,
Life unto every man affords.