by Mary Fowell Hoisington
Oh, bed in my mother’s house,
With sheets as white as May,
With blankets wove of carded-wool,
And scented with new morn hay.
With the poke of a feather down,
From her snow-white plumey geese,
Oh, bed of mine in my mother’s house,
With sleep that was dreaming peace.
Oh, far how I walked forlorn!
Oh, bed that my mother made!
I would that your sheet might be my shroud,
And I in earth be laid.