Mothers, out of the mother-heart,
Fashion a song both soft and low,
Always the same dear mother art,
Rocking the baby to and fro,
Always a lazy, loving crone,
Hummed in a sleepy undertone.

Down the baby snuggles to sleep,
Winking as long as wink he may;
Now with a kick he tries to keep
The tricksy god from his eyes away.
'We-wa, We-wa,' long ago,
The Indian mother chanted low.

'We-eng,' she said, on the baby s brow,
Softly struck with his wee war-club;
Astride of his nose he playeth slow
With his little fist a rub-a-dub.
'We-wa, We-wa,' tender and low,
Rocking the baby to and fro.'

'Le-ro-la, Le-ro-la,' ever a hum.
Like murmuring bees in the golden light.
Under the palm trees mothers come-
Ethiope mothers, dark as night-
Chanting the same old silvery flow.
Rocking the baby to and fro.

Mothers, too, with the snowy skin,
'Bye-lo, Bye-lo,' tenderly sing,
And tell of the dustman coming in,
Into the baby s eyes to fling
Atoms of dust, to make him wink,
And into Dreamland gently sink.

'We-wa, We-wa,' 'Bye-lo, Bye-lo,'
'Le-ro-la, Le-ro-la,' tenderly sing,
Ever the tune of the long ago,
Out of the motherly heart it came,
Born of a sense that mothers know,
Rocking the baby to and fro.

Black or white or bronze the hue,
Always the same sweet tune is heard,
The sweetest song earth ever knew,
Happy as thrill of the nestling bird.
Mothers, content in the twilight glow,
Are rocking their babies to and fro.

Mothers, out of the mother-heart,
Fashion a song both sweet and low,
Always the same dear mother art,
Rooking the baby to and fro,
Always a lazy, loving crone,
Hummed in a dreamy undertone.