Patter, patter, in and out,
Go the women’s loyal feet.
Hither, thither, roundabout,
Late and early hear the beat;
To the crib, the well, the hay,
From the kitchen to the loom;
Treading out a people’s way,
From the cradle to the tomb.
Flutter, flutter, to and fro,
Busy hands fly out and in.
Flaxen threads are white as snow,—
Rough the little hands that spin;
Drawing out the thread of life,
Working early, winding late;
Gentle mother, noble wife,
Knitting firm a nation’s fate.