This book is all that's left me now, Tears will unbidden start,
With faltering lip and throbbing brow, I press it to my heart
For many generations past, Here is our family tree,
My mother's hands this Bible clasped, She dying gave it me.
My mother's hands this Bible clasped, She dying gave it me.

Ah, well do I remember those, Whose names these records bear
Who round the hearth used to close, After the evening prayer
And speak of what this volume said, In tones my heart would thrill
Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still.
Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still.

My father read this holy book To brothers, sisters dear
How calm was my poor mother's look, Who leaned God's word to hear
Her angel face, I see it yet, What thronging memories come
Again that little group is met, Within the halls of home.
Again that little group is met, Within the halls of home.

Thou truest friend man ever knew, Thy constancy I've tried,
When all were false I found thee true, My counsellor and guide
The mines of earth no treasures give, From me this book could buy
For, teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die.
For, teaching me the way to live, It taught me how to die.
"My Mother's Bible"

Words by Henry Russell
The Poetry by George P. Morris, Esq.
(New York: Firth & Hall, 1841)


ARTIST: Caroline Moseley


RECORDED AT: Taplin Auditorium
Princeton University
James Moses, Recording Engineer


© Copyright 1999 by Caroline Moseley,
All rights reserved.

Digitized by
at the Digital Media Center,
Clemons Library, Univ. of Virginia