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The queen of my heart lies here in state today, and my heart throbs,
Breaking like the darkness of any day, when she rose from her bed
And through rain and cold found her way in peasant haste and garbs
To scrub the pots, the clothes, the floor so her castle was fed.
I cannot regret her life, nor the hard gales of familiar poverty
It was her choice. My mother, Esther Jackson, in her simple life
The mold that makes great women virtuous, and wore the purple silk
Only few could see. She taught us them, nay, made us hard for strife:

This merchant ship that brought home bread, drank tea without milk
That we could form the fool in school; her hands were not afraid 
To work and we learnt the royal value of industry, and took pride
Like her in doing simple things well. Against our selfishness she laid
The whipping of her tongue, and kept the best things she had inside
For strangers she expect to come. She wasted no oil, and used liberally
The rod of correction, pleading in our ears the cause of the poor
So that even a Balias, unwashed, unloved, found favor at her door.  
When she told us to blow out that "Home Sweet Home" lamp, surely
You know she was saving oil, that she may have something to give away
And we may learn a person is never too poor to give, for bounty
Is not from the hands, it is from the heart. I loved this woman, the way
She prayed, calling each name and action to God, praising him happily,
And full of thanksgiving for each pound of flour and codfish she
Was able to cook at dead of night. You cannot measure her industry,
Tilling the soil, or raising hens and children, you do know her here
Whose fingers fumbled through arthritis to sew her children clothes
Who stood like a man, machete in hand, to fight the one who would dare
Disrespect her gate or threatened violence, the thorn upon the rose
Command respect, and her beauty a fragrance we can still smell today.
Our lamp never went out, our clothes had no holes if we cared
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