IMMIGRANT MOTHERHOOD
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Down yonder she sits in the half-open door,
'Tis plain she has never had time to before; Her first little child sleeping there on her breast, Poor soul, how she feasts on this banquet of rest! But all is so strange to her, people don't care, They just pass her by with a questioning stare. How youthful and brave is the round-molded face, Still fresh with the blood of her farm-dwelling race. But O, the keen pain as she sees in her child A trait of some kinsman at home in the wild, For here all is strange, and these people don't care How nearly she's starving for those over there. Too soon she must leave the wee son of her youth, To toil in the shops with the bold and uncouth; To roll fat cigars or to tie willow plumes, Or stand the day long by the thundering looms, Where no one is strange, and the bosses don't care, But all pass her by with a growl or a glare. Yet, courage to you, little mother of men, Some day the whole land will protect you, and then Your pure young blood will freshen our race, Renewing our life, setting hope in our face, And you'll find it so strange, how all of us care Who once passed you by with contempt in our stare. |