Once my mother told me when I was knee-high
Son, you'll need clothes this winter
And not a rag have I
There's not a thing in this house
To make a boy's breeches
I don't even have scissors for the cloth
Or thread for the stitches
There's nothing in this house
But a half a loaf of rye
And that old family harp of ours
That no one will buy
And she started to cry
I guess it's lucky for me
That your daddy's in the ground
And can't see the way
I let his baby go around
Well, that was in the late fall
And when winter-time came
I didn't have a pair of breeches
Or a shirt to my name
But my mother said, "Son
Come climb on my lap
And I'll warm those skinny little legs
While you take a nap"
And we'd rock back and forth
To a Mother Goose rhyme
And boy we were happy
For about an hour's time
I've heard it said that that year
The winter was very bad
I know we sat on the floor
Because we burned what chairs we had
Except for one chair
That Mother couldn't break
And that old family harp of ours
That no one would take
We couldn't give it away for pity's sake
Well one night I was sick with a cold
And my mother sang me to sleep
And we she laid me on the floor
I thought I heard her weep
But then I saw her sitting
In that one good chair
And the light shinning on her from
I couldn't tell where
But she looked eighteen years old
And not a day older
And there was that old harp
Leaning on her shoulder
Well she began to play that harp
And her hands moved rapidly
Then threads ran through the harp strings
From somewhere I couldn't see
Then all colored threads began to glide
Right through my mother's hands
I saw the thread turn into cloth
And I watched the cloth expand
And she wove a boy's jacket
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one
She wove a long red coat
And what a sight to see
That coat's for a king
I said it couldn't be for me
She wove a pair of breeches
And quicker than that
She wove a pair of boots
And a little woolen hat
She wove a pair of mittens
She wove a little blouse
She wove all night long
In that cold baren house
And she sang while she worked
And the harp strings spoke
But her voice never faltered
And the thread never broke
But when I awoke
There sat my mother with that harp
Against her shoulder
Looking eighteen years old
And not a day older
A smile on her lips
And a light around her head
But her hands were on the harp stings
Frozen dead
But on the floor beside her
Piled six feet high
Were clothes good enough for a king
Just my size