Poetry Archives

I never thought that Bill could say
           A proper prayer;
’Twas more in his hard-bitten way
           To cuss and swear;
Yet came the night when Baby Ted
           Was bitter ill,
I tip-toed to his tiny bed,
           And there was Bill.
           
Aye, down upon his bended knees
           I heard him cry:
“O God, don’t take my kiddy, please!
           Don’t let him die!”
Then softly so he would not see,
           I shrank away:
He would have been so shamed for me
           To see him pray.

Men-folk are queer: Bill acts up tough,
           Yet how it’s odd,
When things are looking downright rough
           He tunes to God.
“The Parson and the Priest be darned!”
           I’ve heard him say:
Yet when his baby is concerned
           He’s quick to pray.

Maybe it’s gentle parent-hood
           That gives us grace,
And in its sacrificial mood
           Uplifts the race.
Of sentiment, all self above,
           That goodness sums
I think the saving best is Love
           For little ones.