CHILDREN, make your mother happy;
Make her sing instead of sigh,
For the mournful hour of parting
May be very, very nigh. Children, make your mother happy;
Many griefs she has to bear,
And she wearies 'neath her burdens—
Can you not the burdens share? Children, make your mother happy;
Prompt obedience cheers the heart,
While a willful disobedience
Pierces like a poisoned dart. Children, make your mother happy;
On her brow the lines of care
Deepen daily—don't you see them?—
While your own are smooth and fair. Children, make your mother happy;
For beneath the coffin-lid
All too soon her face, so saint-like,
May forevermore be hid. Bitter tears and self-upbraiding
Cannot bring her back again,
And remorseful memories
Are a legacy of pain. Oh, begin to-day, dear children;
Listen when your mother speaks;
Tender, quick, and sweet obedience
For your highest good she seeks. She loves you better than all others,
And for your sake herself denies;
Always patient, prayerful, tender,
Ever thoughtful, true, and wise. Remember while you live, dear children,
Tho' you search the rounded earth,
You'll never find a friend more faithful
Than the one who gave you birth.
—Herald and Presbyter.