With the Sunday suits of “reach-me-downs” to place them in a row.
There was this to patch, and that to darn, and something else to mend;
She would see to every single thing before her work would end,
To the dresses and the pinnies—oh, the memory she had!—
There were lace-up boots for Morgan, and a clean white shirt for Dad.
And the hubbub and the murder that the household used to make,
When she had us tumbled out of bed, and painfully awake.
Here a voice in anguish lifted to announce a button gone;
Someone calling from the back-room “Mum, what socks will I put on?”
While “Himself” was like a Bolshevik athirst for human blood,