by Anne Taylor
Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept, for fear that I should die?
Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay,
And fondly taught me how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?