MY MOTHER

SHE was as good as goodness is,

Her acts and all her words were kind, And high above all memories

I hold the beauty of her mind.

Frederic Hentz Adams

THE END

INDEXES

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A month, sweet little ones, is past

A Stranger, to His own

A Widow,

she had only one!

Age cannot wither her whom not gray hairs
Ah! bless'd are they for whom, 'mid all

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er

As doth his heart who travels far from home.
As Joseph was a-waukin'

Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole
Baby, baby, ope your eye

Before I knew the love of man

Brightly for him the future smiled

Brook, of the listening grass

Children are what the mothers are

16

84

7

161

. 178

. 155

158

. 82

Cling to thy mother; for she was the first
Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east
Departed Child! I could forget thee once
"Do you go to Norton, mamma, this next week?"
Ere last year's morn had left the sky.
Ere the moon begins to rise.

Every week of every season out of English ports go
forth

He brought a Lily white

He came all so still

He sang so wildly, did the Boy

Heigh Ho! daisies and buttercups
"Ho, Sailor of the sea!"

Home they brought her warrior dead
"How many miles to Baby-Land?”
Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky
Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber.
I have two sons, wife

I love it! I love it! and who shall dare

I see your face as on that calmer day
I thought it was the little bed

I wadna gi'e my ain wife

I write. My mother was a Florentine

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