Poems (Merrill)/The Songs My Mother Sung

by Clara A. Merrill

THE SONGS MY MOTHER SUNG

(Dear Mother)

Round the homestead old I wandered,
 Slowly, and with silent tread;
And at last I turned my footsteps
 To the chamber overhead.
There, among the broken rubbish,
 Where the cobwebs thickly hung;
Something sent my thoughts far backward
 To the songs my mother sung.

That old fashioned, wooden cradle
 Which I slept in when a child;
As my mother sat beside me
 Singing ever low and mild.
With her foot upon the rocker,
 To and fro the cradle swung;
Peacefully I lay and listened
 To the songs my mother sung.

Long ago was that old cradle
 Banished to the dust and gloom
'Neath the dark and musty rafters
 Of that unused lumber room.
Long had it remained forgotten,—
 Yet fond memory quickly sprung
As I view'd the dear old relic—
 To the songs my mother sung.

Oft I've roamed in distant places,
 I have traveled far and wide;
And I know the hours most care-free
 Were those spent by mother's side.
While the bell of Time is tolling
 With its harsh unfeeling tongue;
In my memory I shall cherish
 All the songs my mother sung.