Little brown feet, that have grown so weary,
Plodding on through the heat of day,
Mother will hold you, mother will fold you
Safe to her breast; little feet, rest;
Now is the time to cease from play.
Little brown hands, that through day's long hours
Never rested, be still at last;
Mother will rest you; come, then, and nest you
Here by her side, nestle and hide;
Creep to her heart and hold it fast.
Little brown head, on my shoulder lying,
Night is coming and day is dead;
Mother will sing you songs, that shall bring you
Childhood's soft sleep, quiet and deep;
Sweet be your dreams, O dear brown head.