And in my chimney seat o’ nights, when quiet grows the farm,
I pray the Lord he be not cold, while I have fire to warm—
And give the mothers humble hearts whose boys are kept from harm.
And then I take the Book and read before I seek my rest,
Of how that other Son went forth (them parts I like the best),
And left his mother lone for him she’d cuddled on her breast.
I like to think when nights were dark, and Him at prayer, maybe,
Upon the gurt dark mountain side, or in His boat at sea,
He worried just a bit for her, who’d learnt Him at her knee.
And maybe when He minds her ways, He will not let Jan fall—