Father

- 1881-1959
My father knows the proper way 
   The nation should be run; 
He tells us children every day 
   Just what should now be done. 
He knows the way to fix the trusts, 
   He has a simple plan; 
But if the furnace needs repairs, 
   We have to hire a man. 


My father, in a day or two 
   Could land big thieves in jail; 
There's nothing that he cannot do, 
   He knows no word like "fail." 
"Our confidence" he would restore, 
   Of that there is no doubt; 
But if there is a chair to mend, 
   We have to send it out. 


All public questions that arise, 
   He settles on the spot; 
He waits not till the tumult dies, 
   But grabs it while it's hot. 
In matters of finance he can 
   Tell Congress what to do; 
But, O, he finds it hard to meet 
   His bills as they fall due. 


It almost makes him sick to read 
   The things law-makers say; 
Why, father's just the man they need, 
   He never goes astray. 
All wars he'd very quickly end, 
   As fast as I can write it; 
But when a neighbor starts a fuss, 
   'Tis mother has to fight it. 


In conversation father can 
   Do many wondrous things; 
He's built upon a wiser plan 
   Than presidents or kings. 
He knows the ins and outs of each 
   And every deep transaction; 
We look to him for theories, 
   But look to ma for action.

More by Edgar Guest

A Toast to the Men

Dedicated to the Women


Here's to the men! Since Adam's time 
      They've always been the same; 
Whenever anything goes wrong, 
      The woman is to blame. 
From early morn to late at night, 
      The men fault-finders are; 
They blame us if they oversleep, 
      Or if they miss a car. 
They blame us if, beneath the bed, 
      Their collar buttons roll; 
They blame us if the fire is out 
      Or if there is no coal. 
They blame us if they cut themselves 
      While shaving, and they swear 
That we're to blame if they decide 
      To go upon a tear. 


Here's to the men, the perfect men! 
      Who never are at fault; 
They blame us if they chance to get 
      The pepper for the salt. 
They blame us if their business fails, 
      Or back a losing horse; 
And when it rains on holidays 
      The fault is ours, of course. 
They blame us when they fall in love, 
      And when they married get; 
Likewise they blame us when they're sick, 
      And when they fall in debt. 
For everything that crisscross goes 
      They say we are to blame; 
But, after all, here's to the men, 
      We love them just the same!

On Quitting

How much grit do you think you've got? 
Can you quit a thing that you like a lot? 
You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word, 
And where'er you go it is often heard; 
But can you tell to a jot or guess 
Just how much courage you now possess? 


You may stand to trouble and keep your grin, 
But have you tackled self-discipline? 
Have you ever issued commands to you 
To quit the things that you like to do, 
And then, when tempted and sorely swayed, 
Those rigid orders have you obeyed? 


Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out, 
Nor prate to men of your courage stout, 
For it's easy enough to retain a grin 
In the face of a fight there's a chance to win, 
But the sort of grit that is good to own 
Is the stuff you need when you're all alone. 


How much grit do you think you've got? 
Can you turn from joys that you like a lot? 
Have you ever tested yourself to know 
How far with yourself your will can go? 
If you want to know if you have grit, 
Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit. 


It's bully sport and it's open fight; 
It will keep you busy both day and night; 
For the toughest kind of a game you'll find 
Is to make your body obey your mind. 
And you never will know what is meant by grit 
Unless there's something you've tried to quit.

Thanksgiving

Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice, 
An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice; 
An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they 
Are growin' more beautiful day after day; 
Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men, 
Buildin' the old family circle again; 
Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer, 
Just for awhile at the end of the year. 


Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door 
And under the old roof we gather once more 
Just as we did when the youngsters were small; 
Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all. 
Father's a little bit older, but still 
Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will. 
Here we are back at the table again 
Tellin' our stories as women an' men. 


Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer; 
Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there. 
Home from the east land an' home from the west, 
Home with the folks that are dearest an' best. 
Out of the sham of the cities afar 
We've come for a time to be just what we are. 
Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank, 
Forgettin' position an' station an' rank. 


Give me the end of the year an' its fun 
When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done; 
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, 
Let me sit down with the ones I love best, 
Hear the old voices still ringin' with song, 
See the old faces unblemished by wrong, 
See the old table with all of its chairs 
An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.