Pilgrim Mothers

Patter, patter, in and out, Go the women’s loyal feet. Hither, thither, roundabout, Late and early hear the beat; To the crib, the well, the hay, From the kitchen to the loom; Treading out a people’s way, From the cradle to the tomb.

Flutter, flutter, to and fro, Busy hands fly out and in. Flaxen threads are white as snow,— Rough the little hands that spin; Drawing out the thread of life, Working early, winding late; Gentle mother, noble wife, Knitting firm a nation’s fate.