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Words by Walter H. Ford
Music by John W. Bratton
A poor little maiden, with newspapers laden
Was trying her best not to cry
She counted each penny, she didn’t have many
Then called a policeman near by,
My mother’s in jail, sir, will you take this bail, sir
And tell them she didn’t do wrong.
It’s all a mistake, sir,
And her heart will break, sir,
If I am away from her long.
She’s been a mother to me,
Good and true,
Kind as no other could be,
All I know,
We’ve one another, you see,
Just we two,
That’s why I love her, I do,
For she’s been a mother to me.
She isn’t my mother, but there I’ve not other
She found me one day at her door,
She did all she could, sirm to bring me up good, sir
She couldn’t do wrong I am sure,
The judge heard her story, her face shone with glory,
Your mother, may go, my dear child.
And as he dismissed them,
She ran up and kissed him,
Then turned to the court room and smiled.