My mother has a pretty dress
Of silk that’s rich and fine.
She wears it when there’s company
And when she’s out to dine;
The collar has a velvet bow
Below my mother’s face;
The skirt trails softly on the floor,
The sleeves are trimmed with lace;
It shines and shimmers in the light
All changing, gold and green,
I smile at her, and whisper low,
“My mother is a queen!”
Of cloth that’s soft and red.
She wears it when the light is low,
When I am going to bed;
And after I have said my prayers
And when I say good-night,
I’m not afraid of hurting it—
I hug up to it tight,
And say, with arms ’round mother’s neck,
“Oh, have you ever guessed
That though your silken gown is fine
I like this dress the best?”
