by E.E. Swagerty
Mother, the one we all adore;
Mother, whose wisdom we all implore,
Is surely sent from heaven above,
From mother’s breast we first are fed;
It’s by mother’s love we first are led
From babyhood, with all it’s care,
To childhood, where we do and dare,
Dare to climb up in the trees
Then fall out and skin our knees;
Dares to use up sister’s paint
To learn that she’s no living saint;
Dares to scatter daddy’s tools
And run behind his kicking mules,
Causing dad to rave and paw,
And swear we’re the worst he ever saw,
And scare us half out of our wits
By throwing seven kinds of fits;
But then we know I’m mother’s care
We’re sure to find a refuge there.
No matter what wrongs they all may claim
Dear mother will say we’re not to blame.
Then when we grow up to our teens;
And nothing’s proper, so it seems;
When dad will say, “Look here, my son,
To go out nights you’re far too young,”
And, “Daughter, who is that young sap
And will you please keep out his lap?”
It’s mother again who seems to know
That through this phase we’ll surely grow.
That while we’re raw and coarse and green,
Given plenty of time we’ll come out clean,
And try to show we’ve what it takes
To win our game despite the breaks
To win our game be what it may;
Business, labor, or just play;
But in trying, should new slip
And somehow sort of lose our grip,
And friends we thought were tried and true
Will pass us by when we are through
And all our castles, every one,
Have vanished like the setting sun,
And our very souls all shriveled up
Till we’re almost ready for the fatal cup;
It’s mother again, who seems to share
Our griefs and sorrows no matter where.
Pours ointment on our troubled soul,
Helps bolster up another goal;
A goal s high that could we fly,
We’d reach it though it were in the sky.
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