BY ROSE FYLEMAN

When mother comes each morning
She wears her oldest things,
She doesn’t make a rustle,
She hasn’t any rings;
She says, “Good-morning, chickies,
It’s such a lovely day,
Let’s go into the garden
And have a game of play!”

When mother comes at tea-time
Her dress goes shoo-shoo-shoo,
She always has a little bag,
Sometimes a sunshade too;
She says, “I am so hoping
There’s something left for me;
Please hurry up, dear Nanna,
I’m dying for my tea.”

When mother comes at bed-time
Her evening dress she wears,
She tells us each a story
When we have said our prayers;
And if there is a party
She looks so shiny bright
It’s like a lovely fairy
Dropped in to say good-night.