Oh, sing for the mothers who laboured in love, who cradled the land in their gentle embrace,
Through tempests of sorrow and torrents of time, their hands built a home full of kindness and grace.
Yet cold are the hearts of the lords in their halls, who govern with iron yet honour them not,
But richer than gold is the love of a child, and warmer the hearth in a mother’s own cot.
No scepter nor crown can outweigh the gift of a mother who bends but never will break,
No edict nor law can silence her prayer, nor measure the lives that her wisdom will make.
The tyrants may wither, their banners may fade, their power may crumble to dust on the sea,
But strong is the bond of the mother’s embrace, and boundless her love, though the world may not see.
Then lift up your voices, let Albion hear, let fields and let valleys resound with the song,
For mothers who nurtured, for mothers who wept, for mothers whose hearts have been steadfast and strong.
Though kings may forget and the mighty may scorn, yet heaven itself shall remember their name,
For love that is given without any price is love that no darkness nor time shall defame.
So here’s to the mothers, the givers of life, the bearers of burdens too heavy to tell,
Though cold are the hearts of the rulers above, yet earth and the angels shall cherish them well!
(By John Shenton)