What will the birds do, mother, in the spring,
when they gather their crumb round our door?
Will they fly from the trees and tap at my window,
ask why you wandered out no more?
What will the kitten do, mother, all alone?
Will he stop his frolic for a day?
Will he lie on his rug by the side of my bed,
as he did before I went away?
What will Thomas the old gardener say
when you ask him for flowers for me?
Will he give you a rose he has tended with care,
the first ferris bloom on the tree?
I've seen tears come in his honest eyes,
but he said it was when brought him there.
As he gazed over my cheek,
growing fatter each day,
his hand took over my hair.
Keep, Dag Mother, my poor little dog,
I know he will mourn for me too.
Keep him when old and
unless he grows,
sleeping all the long summer through.
Show him,
my cold mother,
so he'll not forget his master,
whose land will be dead.
Speak to him kindly and often of Joe,
pat him on his brown shaggy head.
You,
mother dear,
may miss me for a while,
but in heaven no larger I grow.
Any kind angel will go at the gate when
you ask for your darling little Joe.