The old woman was old and ragged and grey,
And bent with the chill of the winter’s day,
The street was wet with a recent snow,
And the old woman’s feet were aged and slow,
She stood at the crossing and waited long,
Alone uncared for amid the throng,
Of human beings who passed her by,
Not heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and a shout,
Glad in the freedom of school let out,
Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep,                                                                                             Passed the woman so old and grey,
Hastened the children on their way,
Not offered a helping hand to her,
So meek so timid afraid to stir.

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses feet,
Should crowd her down in the slippery street,
At last came one of the merry group,
The gayest laddie of all the group,
He paused beside her and whispered low,
I’ll help you cross if you wish to go,
Her aged hand on his strong young arm,
She placed and so without hurt and harm.

He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong,
Then back again he went,
His young heart happy and well content,
She’s somebody’s mother boys you know,
For all that she’s aged poor and slow,
And I hope some fellow will lend a hand,
To help my mother you understand.
If ever she’s poor old and aged,
When her own dear boy is far away,
And somebody’s mother bowed low,
Head in her home that night,
And the prayer she said was,
God be kind to the noble boy,
Who is somebody’s son,
And pride and joy.