The scent of a flower, or the snatch of a song
Can bring her back clearly in mind,
A sweet, gentle lady, now long departed,
Who has left such fond memories behind,
She smelled sweetly fresh, as a mixture
Of flowers and morning fresh dew,
Even in old age a skin, such perfection,
Eyes sparkling with good humour too,
A song on her lips, with content in her heart,
Her life was not easy, yet still
She found joy in her family, her home and her garden,
Of no one did she ever speak ill,
Her dark hair, turned white, drawn back in a chignon,
Framed a tranquil, benevolent face,
A spotless clean pinny, with small sprigs of flowers,
Covered dress, neatly trimmed with white lace,
Her home, always neat as the proverbial pin,
Was reflected in brass, shining bright,
A coal fire, with friendly flames, always a welcome,
Beside a hearth, scrubbed meticulously white,
A well tended garden with montbretia and roses,
Evening primroses, she liked as well,
To stroll in the garden and delight in their perfume
At the end of day as dusk fell,
Her hands always busy with crochet or knitting,
Industrious in leisure as well,
How I wish I had questioned and learned and remembered,
Then much more about Granny I'd tell.