The Sun-Browned Dads of Maine

Here's ho for the masterful men o' Maine,
--Grit and gumption, brawn and brain!
South they go and West they flow,
The men that do and the men that know.
And Fame and Honor, Power and Gain
Come to the call of the men o' Maine.
But away up back on the rock-piled farms
Are the gnarled old dads with corded arms,
The dads that give these boys o' Maine
Health and strength and grit and brain.
Now the masterful men who have gone their ways
Need none of my humble words of praise.
So, here's best I have for the dads, the ones
Who have slaved and saved to raise those sons.
Here's hail and again for the Maine-bred lads,
Then a triple hail for the dear old Dads.
They are bowed and bent and wrinkled, and their hands are browned and knurled
They would never pass as heroes in the busy, careless world,
For they bear no sword or ribbon, and they show no victor's spoil,
Only such as they have wrested from the weeds and rocky soil.
They have wrung reluctant dollars from the land, and all their gain
Has been spent to nurture manhood in the rugged State of Maine.
And they need no decorations, only loving thanks from those
Who built upon the sacrifice that bought their books and clothes.
I bring some homely laurel for those wrinkled, sunburned brows
Of men whose hands are blistered by the scythe-snaths and the plows,
--For men who wrestle Nature with their bare and corded arms
In an everlasting struggle with these grudging old Maine farms,
Who lay their lives and hopes and joys'neath labor's bitter rule
To coax from sullen Earth the price that keeps their boys in school.
In manhood of America--'mongst brawn and pluck and brain,
Set high these humble heroes of the upland farms of Maine!
And with the cheers you lavish on the men behind the guns
Crowd in one honest, sincere shout for those behind the sons.
They labor here in stern old Maine and every cent is ground
From out the earth by pluck and plod. In youth they never found
That open sesame to wealth the cultured mind employs,
Such as to-day their humble toil bestows upon their boys.
Those crosses signed by toil-cramped hands in probate courts in Maine
The wavering quirks and curliques no mortal can explain,
Those speak with pathos all their own of days of long ago
When "bound-out" children trudged to school through miles of drifted snow;
When scattered weeks of schoolin' in the winter time were doled
To hungry little youngsters, ill-clad and numb with cold.
Now you'll find them, grown to manhood, proud and eager to dilate
On the brightness of the children they have paid to educate.
They have patiently worn patches that their boys may wear good clothes;
As they've struggled on their acres only God, the Father, knows
All the makeshifts and privations of these rocky old Maine farms
Where the boys walk straight to comfort over toiling dads and marms.
Yet those bent and weary parents ask no praises from the world,
Their comfort is to push a son as high as their old, knurled,
And aching muscles can reach up; and, when they pass away,
To know that he will never work one half as hard as they.
Such is the stuff our heroes are, and when you cheer the guns
And those behind them, reckon in the men behind the sons.
The zeal and valor of the land in battle's crash and blaze
And deeds of heroes seeking fame must win due meed of praise,
And yet above them all I set the humble sacrifice
Of toiling men who cent by cent amass the hard-won price
That buys the Future for a boy, bestows the magic "Can,"
Lays Power in his eager grasp and sends him forth A Man.
So, unto these bowed, weary men with earthstained, calloused palms,
Who daily tread the up-turned soil on rough and rocky farms,
Who pile their hoard of dollars up, by sturdy labor won,
Who pour those dollars freely out to educate a son,
To all of these who seek no crown I bring my wreath of bay
And set it on their sun-tanned brows and on their locks of gray, '
And when their dreary, long campaign, their bitter toil is done,
God grant that each may live again, new-born in honored son.
Then three times three, I say again, for
Maine's true heroes now,
Whose hands are blistered, gnarled, and worn by scythe-snath and the plow,
Who vow themselves to poverty, accept its bitter rule
To coax from sullen Earth the price that keeps their sons in school.
Cheer if you will for those who kill--the men behind the guns,
But cheer again for those who build--the men behind the sons.