by Edgar Guest (1881-1959)
The world is full of gladness,
There are joys of many kinds,
There’s a cure for every sadness,
That each troubled mortal finds.
And my little cares grow lighter
And I cease to fret and sigh,
And my eyes with joy grow brighter
When she makes a lemon pie.
When the bronze is on the filling
That’s one mass of shining gold,
And its molten joy is spilling
On the plate, my heart grows bold
And the kids and I in chorus
Raise one glad exultant cry
And we cheer the treat before us
Which is mother’s lemon pie.
Then the little troubles vanish,
And the sorrows disappear,
Then we find the grit to banish
All the cares that hovered near,
And we smack our lips in pleasure
O’er a joy no coin can buy,
And we down the golden treasure
Which is known as lemon pie.