Only a Dad with a tired face coming home from the daily race,
bringing little of gold or fame to show how well he has played the game,
but glad in his heart whenhis own rejoice to see him come or hear his voice,
Only a Dad with a brood of seven one of ten million men or more,
Plodding along in the daily strife bearing the whips and scorns of life
with never a whimper of pain or hate,
for the sake of those who at home await,
Only a Dad neither rich nor proud,
merely one of the surging crowd toiling, Striving from day to day
facing whatever may come his way.
Silent when the harsh condem bearing it all for the love of them.
Only a Dad but he gives his all to smooth the way for his children small,
Doing with courage stern and grim the deeds that his Father did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen, Only a Dad but the best of men.

by Edgar Guest