A mother's love is a blessing

Listening to someone recalling the days when his mother died, and how she was "processed" and "reduced" when she (or it) was too fat to be transported, is enough to bring me morning tears. The tears dried before they come out, but still they were there. I really wonder how to make everyone, especially our parents, happier, when one still has chances.

The best song in McCourt's books:

A mother's love is a blessing
No matter where you roam,
Keep her while she's living,
You'll miss her when she's gone.

Love her as in childhood,
Though feeble, old and grey,
For you'll never miss a mother's love
'til she's buried beneath the clay.

Goodbye, Johnny dear,
When you're far away,
Don't forget your dear old mother
Far across the sea.

Write a letter now and then
And send her all you can
And don't forget where'er you roam
That you're an Irishman.

This is especially touching and moving when you listen to it.. What's the use of life when you have to waste a good portion of it doing some meaningless matter, which is unavoidable however?

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Original songs:

Just twenty years ago today, I held my mother's hand
As she kissed and blessed her only son, going to a foreign land.
The neighbours took me from her breast and told her I must go,
But I could hear my mother's words, tho' they were faint and low.

Goodbye, Johnny dear, when you're far away,
Don't forget your dear old mother far across the sea.
Write a letter now and then and send her all you can,
And don't forget where e'er you roam that you're an Irishman.

I sailed away from Queenstown, that is the coast of Cork,
A very pleasant voyage we had and soon were in New York,
My friends came to meet me there and work I got next day,
But thro' all this hospitality I could hear my mother say.

Goodbye, Johnny dear, when you're far away,
Don't forget your dear old mother far across the sea.
Write a letter now and then and send her all you can,
And don't forget where e'er you roam that you're an Irishman.

One day a letter came to me, it came from Ireland,
The postmark showed it came from home, it was not my mother's hand.
T'was father who had wrote to say that she had passed away,
And just as if from Heaven above I could hear my mother say.

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An Irish boy was leaving Leaving his native home, Crossing the broad Atlantic, Once more he wished to roam, And as he was leaving his mother, While standing on the Quay, He threw his arms around her waist And this to her did say:

And as the years grow onward, I'll settle down in life, And I'll choose a nice young colleen, And take her for my wife. And as the kids grow older, They'll play around my knee And I'll teach them the very same lesson That my mother taught to me:

Chorus:
A mother's love is a blessing,
No matter where you roam.
Keep her while she's living,
You'll miss her when she's gone.
Love her as in childhood,
When feeble, old and grey,
For you'll never miss a mother's love
'til she's buried beneath the clay.