Lyrics

I have a widow'd mother, to whom I cleave With a devouring passion. My sole care And joy she is. "What money I can spare" Is hers--when she can get it. If I leave Upon your urgent errand she will grieve (Poor soul), and find no comfort anywhere-- Beauty draws some men my a single hair; But me--I'm all for mother, please believe. A boy's best friend's his mother without a doubt And a most excellent mother have I got: 'Tis true, the other day, she said, "You go-- I'll struggle through!" I murmured, "Certainly not!"-- Sharp like, and firm. . . Dear heart, she'll never know How much I've loved her--since the war broke out!