Some Day
By Estelle Webb Thomas
Some day, when we’re rich and happy
And our dreams have all come true,
We are going to do for Mother
What we’ve always longed to do.
Some day, we are going to tell her,
When we feel in proper mood,
What she’s meant to us, her children ;
Of her wondrous power for good.
Some day, we shall see that Mother
Comes into her rightful own,
To the quiet ease and beauty,
That her life has never known.
Some day, when we’re not so busy
In the moiling marts of men,
We shall spare and guard and keep her —
But — will Mother be here then?
(1927)
There was a magazine story in 1921 that had the line “. . . to escape from the toiling, moiling marts of trade, from the greed, from the envy . . .” –Everybody’s Magazine, vol. 44
I’ve never heard it before. But I wonder if it was a buzz word then, or I’ve just read the wrong stuff.
The only place I recall “moil” is in Robert Service’s The Cremation of Sam McGee. I assumed it meant something like dig or sluice. Now I have to look it up… Strange things are done!