| |
| THE RICH man’s son inherits lands, | |
| And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, | |
| And he inherits soft, white hands, | |
| And tender flesh that fears the cold, | |
| Nor dares to wear a garment old; | 5 |
| A heritage, it seems to me, | |
| One scarce would wish to hold in fee. | |
| |
| The rich man’s son inherits cares; | |
| The bank may break, the factory burn, | |
| A breath may burst his bubble shares; | 10 |
| And soft, white hands could scarcely earn | |
| A living that would serve his turn; | |
| A heritage, it seems to me, | |
| One scarce would wish to hold in fee. | |
| |
| The rich man’s son inherits wants, | 15 |
| His stomach craves for dainty fare; | |
| With sated heart he hears the pants | |
| Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, | |
| And wearies in his easy chair; | |
| A heritage it seems to me, | 20 |
| One scarce would wish to hold in fee. | |
| |
| What doth the poor man’s son inherit? | |
| Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, | |
| A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; | |
| King of two hands, he does his part | 25 |
| In every useful toil and art; | |
| A heritage, it seems to me, | |
| A king might wish to hold in fee. | |
| |
| What doth the poor man’s son inherit? | |
| Wishes o’erjoyed with humble things, | 30 |
| A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, | |
| Content that from employment springs. | |
| A heart that in his labor sings; | |
| A heritage, it seems to me, | |
| A king might wish to hold in fee. | 35 |
| |
| What doth the poor man’s son inherit? | |
| A patience learned of being poor; | |
| Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it. | |
| A fellow-feeling that is sure | |
| To make the outcast bless his door; | 40 |
| A heritage, it seems to me, | |
| A king might wish to hold in fee. | |
| |
| O, rich man’s son! there is a toil | |
| That with all others level stands; | |
| Large charity doth never soil, | 45 |
| But only whiten, soft white hands— | |
| This is the best crop from thy lands; | |
| A heritage it seems to me, | |
| Worth being rich to hold in fee. | |
| |
| O, poor man’s son! scorn not thy state; | 50 |
| There is worse weariness than thine, | |
| In merely being rich and great; | |
| Toil only gives the soul to shine, | |
| And makes rest fragrant and benign— | |
| A heritage, it seems to me, | 55 |
| Worth being poor to hold in fee. | |
| |
| Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, | |
| Are equal in the earth at last; | |
| Both, children of the same dear God, | |
| Prove title to your heirship vast | 60 |
| By record of a well-filled past— | |
| A heritage, it seems to me, | |
| Well worth a life to hold in fee. | |
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