There’s a Little Irish Mother always there.
There’s a Little Irish Mother—and her head is bowed and gray,
And she’s lonesome when the evening shadows fall;
Near the fire she “do be thinkin’,” all the “childer” are away,
And their silent pictures watch her from the wall.
For the world has claimed them from her; they are men and women now,
In their thinning hair the tell-tale silver gleams;
But she runs her fingers, dozing, o’er a tousled baby brow—
It is “little Con” or “Bridgie” in her dreams.
There’s a Little Irish Mother sleeping softly now at last