A    M O T H E R ' S    R I G H T

Tender loving thoughts are yours, you sit
and dream each day,
Sometimes you lie awake at night, and let
emotions sway;
Close 'neath your heart you feel a throb, another
soul lies there,
A being that is part of you – a being you must
bear.

What will it be you wonder – will God give
you a boy?
Or will he send a baby girl – to fill your life
with joy?
You'd love a boy as much as girl, but boys go
out to fight,
The nation claims them for their own, and takes
them from your sight.

Yes; girls are greater comfort, they share the
home life best,
There's not the danger they will go, and leave
you like the rest;
E'en though they marry – settle down, they often
gladden age,
Not like the boys, who must obey – inhuman
selfish rage.

And so the little mite is born, with Mother
sore perplexed,
She knows not if it's hers for long, or who will
claim it next;
And, claim it someone surely will, if it should
be a son,
Someday he'll into battle go – as fodder for a
gun.

Oh why must Mothers suffer so, and why such
useless strife?
Why must all selfish gain be bought, by
sacrificing life?
Pray with me friend, that someday soon, each
Mother's tiny mite,
Will live to shield and comfort her, and give to
her "Her Right".