Mothering Sunday
a poem by: George Hare Leonard
It is the day of all the year,
Of all the year the one day,
When I shall see my Mother dear
And bring her cheer,
A-Mothering on Sunday.
And now to fetch my wheaten cake,
To fetch it from the baker,
He promised me, for Mother’s sake,
The best he’s bake
For me to fetch and take her.
Well have I known, as I went by
One hollow lane, that none day
I’d fail to find – for all they’re shy –
Where violets lie,
As I went home on Sunday.
My sister Jane is waiting-maid
Along with Squire’s lady;
And year by year her part she’s played,
And home she stayed
To get the dinner ready.
For Mother’ll come to Church, you’ll see –
Of all the year it’s the day –
‘The one,’ she’ll say, ‘that’s made for me.’
And so it be:
It’s every Mother’s free day.
The boys will all come home from town,
Not one will miss that one day;
And every maid will bustle down
To show her gown,
A-Mothering Sunday.
It is the day of all the year,
Of all the year the one day;
And here come I, my Mother dear,
And bring you cheer,
A-Mothering on Sunday.
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