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Sundays, as a rule, |
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Us kids went to Sunday School, |
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And Mrs Adlam said, |
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Angels stood round our bed. |
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To keep us safe from dark, |
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Right through 'til day begun, |
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And we used to lie awake, |
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Just to try to see one, |
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And though we never saw one anywhere, |
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We heard them softly singing in the air. |
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Sundays occasionally |
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We were invited back for tea, |
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And bread with jam and cream, |
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Made Sundays seem a dream. |
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In the dingy mission hall, |
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Mrs Adlam praying, |
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And down the street back home, |
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All our mates were playing, |
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With Mrs Adlam's angels everywhere, |
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And we thought we saw a halo in her hair. |
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Sundays, for sure, |
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Ain't like that anymore, |
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Its getting hard for me, |
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To see her face in front of me. |
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I wonder if her angels |
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Have their arms around her curled, |
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Keeping her safe from life, |
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And guarding her from the world. |
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On a summer Sunday evening do I dare, |
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To hear Mrs Adlam's angels in the air. |
