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.