It surely isn't hard to be a mother;

There really isn't very much to do:

The days are exactly like each other;

You simply shut your eyes and wander through.

For six o'clock is time enough for rising

And getting all the children washed and dressed

And breakfast cooked, it really is surprising,

But Mother never seems to need a rest.

The lunches must be packed and jackets rounded,

And everybody soothed and sent to school.

To say that Mother rushes, is unfounded...

She has nothing more to manage, as a rule.

Unless it is to finish piles of sewing,

and cook and iron and wash and scrub and sweep,

To order food and keep the fire -stove going,

And then perhaps, to hide herself....and weep.

And when at last she's tuckedthem under covers,

And seen to doors that Dad forgot to lock,

Triumphantly at midnight she discovers,

Ther's nothing more till six o'clock!

 emu and his chicks