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Beyond the hills and prairies wide,
Far, far away from this fireside,
There's a sacred spot, a billowy plain,
Where a dear one sleeps through sun and rain--
Man's best friend, a mother dear--
For you and all she wept her tears!
Her boys and girls have older grown,
In distant lands they've built their homes.
Their children play about their doors,
Just as hers played in days of yore;
When her sweet voice rang out in song
In childhood's home, the whole day long.
No artist's hand, with subtle grace,
Could paint that mother's dear, sweet face;
It was aglow with hope and love,
Like th' shining saints who live above.
No poet's pen, with flowing rhyme,
Could write her life. It was sublime.
It was a life of bitter tears
And joy withal, through all the years.
The sweet, wild flowers bloom o'er her grave.
Where the long blue-stem, the breezes wave,
And the meadow lark begins the day,
In the gentle spring with his roundelay;
And the neighboring town is all alive
With thrifty trade and enterprise;
The farmer folk 'round far and near,
Still sow and reap year after year:
The tho'tless world, still rushing on,
Will follow soon where she has gone.
For, as she came, so all must come,
To occupy death's silent home.
A mother's grave should ever be
A sacred place, a shrine for thee.