My Mother’s Hands

From a mother’s hands that rocked me in the cradle,

to a mother’s love that means the world to me.

Working hands that set the morning table,

Homemade bread she baked the night before,

Placed it in a worn-out leather school bag,

 she hung upon a nail behind the door.

Holding hands that walked me down the laneway,

And waved goodbye as I strolled off to school,

I still hear her soft voice gently whisper,

listen well and follow all the rules.

Praying hands in church on Sunday morning,

As a ray of sunshine greets the old, oak tree,

Healing hands that dressed the wounded cowboy,

when he fell in grandma’s hall and cut his knee.

Loving hands that gathered us together,

at supper time when poems and prayers were said.

Tender hands that tucked me in at bedtime,

 turned out the lights and gently pulled the shade.

Giving hands that fed the weary traveller,

at Spring and early Autumn when she called,

Rosary beads, gold rings and holy pictures,

the red-haired lady wore a woollen shawl.

Toiling hands that planted scented roses,

 and made the sunshine with each glancing smile,

But in this life, nothing lasts forever,

the Lord above controls the hands of time.

Feeble hands that gently placed a flower,

on my brother’s grave when God took him away,

Tending hands that nursed my ailing father,

with love and care until his final day,

I know they’re watching over you in heaven,

For your gifts of love and strength you are adored,

Working hands still set the morning table,

We share the bread you made the night before.

From a mother’s hands that rocked me in the cradle,

To a mother’s love that means the world to me.

Bill Casey’s Forge

Come let’s go walking again,

Down to the old schoolhouse now ruined and grey,

Once tall and serene it brings back fond memories to me,

Of days that have passed and school friends I no longer see.

Chorus

On Saturday night, we met outside Bill Casey’s forge,

Time stood still as we danced until half three or four,

We walked home at sunrise,

You left me right up to my door,

Still talking of friends we met outside Bill Casey’s forge.

Bill was the blacksmith, who lived past the old chestnut tree,

And after the school bell I would call over to see,

Where he made horseshoes shaped on an anvil of steel,

The bellows, the fire, the smoke rising up on the breeze.

Chorus

No roof on the schoolhouse, stone walls are all I can see,

The trees are now gone, there are no chestnuts for me,

But it’s nice to remember the old days with fond memories,

Some friends have passed on, but still in my mind I can see.

Chorus

We walked home at sunrise, you left me right up to my door,

I miss those friends we met outside Bill Casey’s forge.