Daddy

 

I would rather be the daddy
  Of a romping, roguish crew,
Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie
  And a little girl or two,
Than the monarch of a nation,
  In his high and lofty seat,
Taking empty adoration
  From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses,
  As at night to me they run,
Than to be the king who misses
  All the simpler forms of fun.
When his dreary day is ending
  He is dismally alone,
But when my sun is descending
  There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming;
  I must walk a quiet street,
But when once they see me coming,
  Then on joyous, flying feet
They come racing to me madly
  And I catch them with a swing,
And I say it proudly, gladly,
  That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places;
  You may boast of pomp and power;
Men may turn their eager faces
  To the glory of an hour,
But give me the humble station
  With its joys that long survive,
For the daddies of the nation
  Are the happiest men alive.

 --Edgar Guest