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 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 As a fond mother, when the day is o'er As doth his heart who travels far from home. Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole 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 Every week of every season out of English ports go He brought a Lily white He came all so still He sang so wildly, did the Boy Heigh Ho! daisies and buttercups Home they brought her warrior dead I love it! I love it! and who shall dare I see your face as on that calmer day I wadna gi'e my ain wife I write. My mother was a Florentine 33 24 |