by Anne Taylor
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother. When pain and sickness made
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept, for fear that I shoul die?
My Mother. Who dressed my dol in clothes so gay,
And fondly taught me
how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother. Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make
My Mother. And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?