There is no love like a fond mother's love.The father's gentle friendship is but care,The truest brother will unthinking rove,And the sweet sister can give but a share.In weal or woe the mother feels the tie,The sacred link but to her bosom known.The father's ire the truant child may fly,But when did She part of herself disown?With her soft hand she holds the aching head,And toils unwearied when misfortune looms.The noisome dungeon has for her no dread,Yea, at the cross she mourns, and at the tombs:Then why so wonder that these tears should flow?Cold, cold, clay-cold, my mother lies below.
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Mother's Love
written byGalt John
© Galt John
