Tag: Edgar A. Guest

From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 6, 1915. By Edgar A. Guest.

Sometimes when folks come in to call on Ma an’ Pa’s away,
An’ I’m supposed to be where I can’t hear a word they say,
Ma starts to tell ‘em all about Pa’s fine an’ splendid ways,
An’ just how good an’ kind he is, an’ all the jokes he plays;
An’ how he never gives her any reason for complaint,
Until she has the women folks believin’ Pa’s a saint.

Pa’s just an ordinary man—he tells us so himself.
He has to work all day to get his little bit of pelf.
He isn’t one that’s known to fame, he can’t do clever things,
He isn’t one that makes a speech, or out in public sings.
But Ma just makes him out to be a man the world would cheer
If it could know the worth of him—when he’s not there to hear.

When Pa’s away Ma tells her friends how much of him she thinks,
An’ just how good it is to have a man that never drinks.
She dwells upon his thoughtful ways, his patience an’ his worth,
An’ boasts that she is married to the finest man on earth.
But if Pa isn’t home on time, an’ supper has to wait,
She gives it to him, good an’ strong, for gettin’ in so late.

Sometimes when Ma is scolding Pa, an’ he don’t say a word,
I feel like tellin’ him the things that Ma don’t know I’ve heard.
I feel like crawlin’ in his lap, an’ whisperin’, “Never mind,
Deep in her heart Ma really thinks you’re all that’s good an’ kind.
She thinks that you’re the finest man there is on earth, I know
Because most every afternoon she tells the neighbors so.”

From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 1, 1914. By E. A. Guest.

God bless the old United States,
    God keep her people strong;
God guard the peace within her gates
    And fill her land with song.
Teach us who dwell beneath her flag
    To cherish peaceful ways;
To cease of cannon’s strength to brag
    And uniforms to praise.

God bless the old United States,
    Where Freedom’s banner flies,
Where joyously the mother waits
    With bright and smiling eyes,
The father, coming home at night,
    His day of toiling done,
And where to meet him with delight
    His happy children run.

Here all the tears are honest tears
    And pain is honest pain,
And here, secure throughout the years
    The toilers’ homes remain.
Here firesides are not desolate
    By needless shot and shell,
But honor and reward await
    The men who labor well.

God bless the old United States,
    God bless her people, too;
God keep forever at her gates
    The old red, white and blue.
And may its beauties never die,
    But every year increase;
God grant that flag shall ever fly
    Above a land at peace.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 24, 1914. By E. A. Guest.

Old-fashioned folks! God bless ‘em all!
    The fathers an’ the mothers,
The aunts an’ uncles, fat an’ tall,
    The sisters an’ the brothers.
The good old-fashioned neighbors, too—
    The passing time improves ‘em,
They still drop in to chat with you
    Whene’er the spirit moves ‘em.
The simple, unaffected folks
    With gentle ways an’ sunny,
        The brave and true
        That live life through
    And stay unspoiled by money.

Old-fashioned folks, of solid worth,
    On them a benediction!
The joy an’ comfort of the earth,
    Its strength, without restriction.
The charm of every neighborhood
    The toilers uncomplaining,
The men an’ women, pure and good
    Of fine and honest graining.
The plain and open-hearted folks
    That make no fad a passion,
        The kind an’ fair
        That do an’ dare
    An’ are not slaves to fashion.

Old-fashioned folks, that live and love
    And give their service gladly,
An’ deem their neighbors worthy of
    Their help when things go badly.
The simple sharers of our joys,
    Sweet ministers in sorrow,
They help the world to keep its poise
    An’ strength for each tomorrow.
The simple, unaffected folks
    That live for all about ‘em,
        God bless ‘em all,
        This earthly ball
    Would dreary be without ‘em.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 23, 1913. By E. A. Guest.

He didn’t have much of a creed,
    And his doctrine was not very deep;
His faith wasn’t one he could read
    In volumes expensive or cheap.
He helped all who asked when he could,
    He comforted all when they grieved,
He believed in the right and the good,
    And he lived up to what he believed.

He didn’t have much of a creed,
    His doctrine was simple and plain,
But he seemed to have all that we need
    To balance life’s pleasure and pain.
He wasn’t a fellow to shirk
    With burdens that could be relieved
He believed ’twas his duty to work,
    And he lived up to what he believed.

He put out his hand here and there
    To succor the weak and distressed,
And when he had burdens to bear
    He bore them by doing his best.
He refused to take profit or gain
    That was won by another deceived.
He believed in a life without stain
    And he lived up to what he believed.

I reckon when toiling is o’er,
    And all our struggles are through,
When no one needs help anymore,
    And there are no good deeds to do,
When the last of life’s dangers is braved,
    And the judgement of all is begun,
Not by what we believed we’ll be saved,
    But by what, through believing, we’ve done.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 22, 1913. By E. A. Guest.

There ain’t the joy in foreign skies that those of home possess,
An’ friendliness o’ foreign folks ain’t home-town friendliness;
An’ far-off landscapes with their thrills don’t grip me quite as hard
As jes’ that little patch o’ green that’s in my own back yard.

It’s good to feel a stranger’s hand grip heartily your own,
It’s good to see a stranger’s smile when you are all alone;
But though a stranger’s grip is warm, an’ though his smile is sweet,
There’s something in the home folks’ way that has the stranger beat.

A railroad train that’s outward bound bears many a man an’ dame
Who think a thousand miles away the sunsets brighter flame;
An’ seekin’ joys they think they lack they pack their grips an’ roam,
An’ just as I, they some day find the sweetest joys at home.

Away from home the girls are fair an’ men are kind of heart,
An’ there you’ll always find a few who sigh when you depart;
But though you rode a million miles o’er gleaming railroad track,
You’d never find a joy to beat the joy of gettin’ back.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 16, 1913. By E. A. Guest.

It doesn’t seem a year ago that I was tumbling out of bed
The icy steps that lead below at 1 a. m., barefoot, to tread,
And puttering round the kitchen stove, while chills ran up and down my form
As I stood there and waited for her bottled dinner to get warm;
Then sampled it to see that it was not too hot or not too cool,
That doesn’t seem a year ago, and now she’s trudging off to school.

It doesn’t seem a month ago that I was teaching her to walk,
And holding out my arms to her. And that was ‘fore she learned to talk.
I stood her up against the wall, eager, yet watchful lest she fall;
Then suddenly she came to me—the first two steps those feet so small
Had, unassisted, ever made! Those feet I hope to guide and rule;
That doesn’t seem a month ago—and now she’s trudging off to school.

Oh, Father Time, line deep my brow, and tinge my thinning hair with gray,
Deal harshly with my battered form as you go speeding on your way;
Print on my face your marks of years, and stamp me with your yesterdays,
But, oh, tread softly now, I pray, the ground whereon my baby plays,
Pass over her with gentle touch; to keep her young break every rule,
But yesterday she was a babe—and now she’s trudging off to school.

From the Omaha Daily Bee, May 9, 1913.
 By Edgar A. Guest.
 

 I hold that gardening’s splendid fun.
     I am the chap that some think odd.
 I like to rise and greet the sun
     To turn and break the stubborn clod.
 It’s great to spend an hour or two
     Some care unto the back yard giving;
 But this I will admit to you:
     I’d hate to do it for a living.
 
 There is no toil that quite compares
     To delving daily with a spade
 And with a hoe cut down the tares
     Or bring a front lawn up to grade.
 With joy it makes the pulses throb
     And starts the heart beating gaily;
 ’Tis true I glory in the job
     But I would hate to do it daily.
 
 Take it from me, you sluggish men
     Whose arteries may someday harden
 For lack of work. ’Tis truth I pen;
     You ought to labor in a garden.
 Go bend your backs above a spade
     And strain your muscles with a hoe;
 There is no more delightful trade
     Unless that way you earn your dough.
 
 I glory in the stubborn ground
     And conquer it with fertilizer
 Now every morning I am found
     A bright and smiling early riser.
 It’s fun to haul in loads of dirt
     And lug out chunks of solid clay;
 In confidence, though, I’ll assert:
     I’d hate to do it by the day.
 
 Think you I mind this aching back
     Or care because my muscles twinge
 Or that my bones, with each attack
     Remind me of a rusty hinge?
 No! Gardening is wholly joy
     A source of pleasure unalloyed;
 But, confidentially, my boy,
     I’m glad I’m otherwise employed.