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Birthday Songs, Recipes, Games and Traditions

Mothers Net

Poems and Lyrics

    A child's a plaything for an hour;
    Its pretty tricks we try
    For that or for a longer space -
    Then tire, and lay it by.

    But I knew one that to itself
    All seasons could control;
    That would have mock's the sense of pain
    Out of a grieved soul.

    Thou straggler into loving arms,
    Young climber-up of knees
    When I forget thy thousand ways
    Then life and all shall cease.

    - Mary Lamb 1765-1847





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