None is best,
To build the nest,
Or when I’m sick, to rub my chest
With stuff that smells an awful mess,
But, I love her all the while .
And none is better,
at guessing the weather
And wrapping me up in thick wool sweaters,
(that itch and scratch, and are soft as feathers),
But, they keep the weather mild.
And none can measure,
Can’t think of the treasure,
Of a mother whose knees see constant pressure,
From asking Christ, our lord and savior,
To bless her precious child.