May heaven help me and hail me the height,
So shall my pen be able to write,
In the honour of those whose name when we take,
It makes the mind glow and heavy hearts light.
In the honour of mothers, whom himself Lord praise,
The poor poet tries, but finds not phrase,
They never live their life, they never hesitate,
On the cost of their comforts, they their children raise.
Have they not dreams and have they not need,
Yes indeed, but they always sacrifice,
Working and waking, toiling and training,
For making the life of children nice.
Neither summer nor winter they take into account,
Their charms and choices are linked with the child.
How weary and worn out, tired and troubled,
But always for the child, mellow and mild.
We were feeble and faint, delicate dependent,
Frail in the form, crept and crippled,
Who was there, with us and always took care,
Our soul slumbered, When her love rippled.
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