I wish I were Ann Taylor to have written this for HER:

Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush'd me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest ?
My mother.

When sleep forsook ray open eye,
Who was it sung sweet lullaby,
And rock'd me that I should not cry?
My mother

Who sat and watch'd my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed ?
My mother

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed Upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should-die ?
My mother

Who dress'd my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say ?
My mother

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way ?
My mother

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well ?
My mother

And can I ever cease to be,
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me ?
My mother

Ah, no ! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please ray life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
My mother

When thou art feeble, old, and grey,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will sooth thy pains away,
My mother

And when I see thee hang thy head,
'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
My mother

For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in HIS eyes,
If I should ever dare despise,
My mother