"Dad"

In this, the most uniformly prosperous country in the world, hundreds of old men and women, after a lifetime spent in pioneering, are invited to accept, as a mark of the community's gratitude and esteem, the princely sum of fifteen shillings a week.—“The Herald.”

What are we doing for Dad today—
    You with the life of ease,
Earning your bread in the modern way,
    Doing much as you please?
You are going off to a "show" tonight,
And your dress is neat and your smile is bright—
Though the fruits are yours, and your hands are white,
    'Twas Dad who planted the trees!

What are we doing for Dad today?
    Now that he's earned his rest?
No longer fit, he has done his bit,
    And he battled with the best.
At the football match and the pony race
We shout and spend, and we go the pace.
For we've fallen soft in an easy place—
    'Twas Dad who feathered the nest!

We reap the bountiful harvest now,
    Dad sowed in the hard, stern years.
And how do we pay in this later day
    For the toil of the pioneers?
A weekly dole for his bed and board,
A few odd coins from the ample hoard
Won thro' his toil—this we afford,
    We younger profiteers.

Ah, he does not whine and he does not beg,
    For Dad's of the old, stern stuff.
Though he may fail, he makes no wail
    That he does not get enough.
In days of his toiling he was game,
And old age finds him still the same,
And our the fault, and ours the shame
    If Dad is "dealt it rough."

What are we doing for Dad today?
    What are we doing for Mum?
Down in the "Home" they are thrust away,
    Thinking their thoughts—but dumb.
Oh, the dance goes on, and the gaudy show,
In the sunlit morn of the years we know;

        .   .   .   .

But how will it be as the swift years go
    And our own dark winters come?