MAMMY.
There are pictures of the past in memory’s gallery before which we love to linger. To one it is perhaps the old homestead in the North, or the South. To another, a woman’s face. To a woman mayhap this picture is suggested by a simple tress of hair, or fragrant dust, once violets, or an old letter, perchance kissed many times, or tear-wet, who may know? To me it is my old—
MAMMY.
Who nursed and fed us from her breast
And in her tender arms caressed?
Mammy.
Who washed our faces, combed our hair
And tied us in our baby chair?
Mammy.
Who soaped and bathed our little forms,
And rocked us in her loving arms?
Mammy.
Who, when we stumped our little toes,
Put balsam on to heal our woes?
Mammy.
Who could our baby tears repress,
And lull us into drowsiness?
Mammy.
Who tucked us in our baby cot,
And all our badness soon forgot?
Mammy.
Who always patted us to sleep,
And “Prayed the Lord our souls to keep?”
Mammy.
Who rests from sorrow ’neath the sod,
And all the paths of duty trod?
Mammy.