The Postman is the people's man,
Ready of foot and eye and hand,
Who bears a blessing or a ban
To many in the land.
But whether he bring hope or dread,
Tending to make me rich or poor,
As he so bravely earns his bread,
He's welcome at my door.

With muttered word and smothered sigh
We look and listen for his feet,
And watch him with a wary eye
As he comes down the street.
But if I dwell in field or town,
Upon a mud or marble floor,
Whether my fortune smile or frown,
He's welcome at my door.

The statesman bent on lofty schemes,
Good for the people or the throne;
The poet weaving pleasant dreams,
Alike the Postman own.
He lends the lover's mind new wings,
In crowded mart, on lonely moor;
And though he brings me few good things.
He's welcome at my door.

He braves the time, whate'er it be,
The stormy wind, the hail, the shower,
And leaves his words of grief or glee
At the appointed hour.
He bears his missives morn and eve
Alike unto the rich and poor,
But if he make me glad or grieve,
He's welcome at my door.

He scatters wide the printed page,
Filled with the various thoughts of men,
For much does our inquiring age
Owe to the press and pen.
He brings the book to teach and please
The ever-toiling, patient poor;
And while he offers things like these,
He's welcome at my door.

When comes the Christmas holiday
Let's not forget this herald true,
But strive to help his scanty pay
By some free gift that's due.
He wakes strange feelings in the breast
Of proud patrician, squire, or boor;
And whether he make or mar my rest,
He's welcome at my door.