At home or away, in the valley or street,
Whenever I chance in this wide world to meet
A girl that is thoughtless, a boy who is wild,
My heart whispers softly, "'Tis some mother's child."
And when I see those o'er whom long years have rolled,
Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are cold,
Be it woman all fallen or man all defiled,
A voice whispers sadly, "Ah. Some mother's child."
No matter how far from right she has strayed;
No matter what inroads dishonour hath made:
No matter what elements cankered the pearl-
Though tarnished and sullied, she is some mother's girl.
No matter how wayward his footsteps have been;
No matter how deep he has sunken in sin:
No matter how low is his standard of joy: -
Though guilty and loathesome, he is some mother's boy.
That head hath been pillowed on some tender breast.
That form hath been wept o'er, those lips have been pressed.
That soul hath been prayed for in sweet tones and mild:
For her sake deal gently- with some mother's child.
Francis L. Keeler
