(Tim Spencer)



Somewhere out there on the prairie alone my guardian angel devine

Is there at rest somewhere in the west that pioneer mother of mine

I'd give all I own today if someone would guide my way

To that hallowed spot where she's sleeping that pioneer mother of mine.



There is nothing left of her busy life

But the things she made when her days were full

A couple of rugs on the kitchen floor

And an afagan knitted out of bits of wool.



Her garden has a deserted look

And the weeds show up in the sunshine smile she is dead

And the things she fought run wild

And you stop and think was her life worth while.



But if you had known as well as I knew

The quiet good and the helping hand

And the neighborly warm big heart of hers

I think you would really understand.



That not all the people that we call great

Are really greatest in the end

And perhaps the finest thing in life

Is a homely common every day friend.



So the little life with the homely tasks

Has worked it's pattern and so goes on

What if the weeds grow rank again

And what if the flowers are dead and gone.



Ah, the little woman of small account

With the cheerful smile on her brave old face will never die

For the tide of years will produce her like to take her place.



I'd give all I own today if someone would guide my way

To that hallowed spot where she's sleeping that pioneer mother of mine...