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A TOAST TO MOTHER
1 will drink this toast to the woman I love.
To the woman who has been the beacon light of my life; it matters not where I may be tossed upon life’s perilous waves, when the storms rage about me and the wild billows roll high, she stands as a lighthouse signal¬ ing to me a port of safety and ever welcome refuge.
To the woman whose tender words fell upon my ears as music sweeter than melodies played by an angel upon harp strings of gold.
To the noble woman who pressed the first kiss upon my brow, and who first suffered that I might live; whose tender hand rocked the cradle of my infancy; whose ever watching eye safely guarded me through the primrose days of childhood; who weathered me through the storms of youth and whose unselfish life is ever ready to sacri¬ fice, if such sacrifice will but pay the price of my liberty, welfare or success.
To the woman who has been to me a shelter from the rain, a fortress in danger, and an inspiration in defeat; who is the first to smile and applaud me when success crowns my efforts, and the first to weep and console me when the clouds of sorrow hover close about me.
To the woman who was my first love in life’s rosy springtime, and the only true sweetheart I have ever had; who is my only true and certain friend; who, when all others have deserted me, and when life seems one cold and barren peak, will be with me and near me till the last, and, who, with one kind word, can bring out the sunlight hidden behind the heaviest cloud.
To the woman who has been to me what the diamond is to the gold; to me what the fragrance is to the rose; to me what the sunlight is to the day.
To the woman whose purity is unsurpassed by the
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snow that crowns the hilltops or the spotless lily of the field, and whose whole life has been that of an angel, though on earth, and that of a queen, though uncrowned.
To the woman whom God in His goodness gave to me as a friend; whom I may trust without fear of treason; upon whom I can depend without fear of desertion and that I may love her and know her as my own Dear Mother. (Anonymous)
AS HIS MOTHER USED TO DO
He criticized her pudding and he found fault with her cake;
He wished she’d make some biscuits as his mother used to make.
She didn’t wash the dishes and she didn’t make a stew,
Nor even mend his socks as his mother used to do.
His mother had six children, but by night her work was done;
His wife seemed always drudging, tho’ she only had the one.
His mother always was well dressed, his wife might be so, too,
If she would only manage as his mother used to do.
Ah! Well, she was not perfect, but she tried to do her best
Until she thought her time had come to have a rest.
So when one day she went the same old rigamarole all through
She turned him up and spanked him, as his mother used to do.
(Author Unknown)