Let them toast sources of fierce dispute,
Those precious angels in disrepute--
The mock of nations, the targets for scorn,
The butt of jokes since jokes were born,
Those objects of laughter, those figures of awe,
Their poor and innocent mothers-in-law!
Reflect, her friend, have you never thought
That they gave you the joy that cannot be bought?
They rear the boys, they rear the girls,
Wipe their noses and comb their curls,
They spend the most of their busy lives
Training their future husbands and wives.
The jokes, let them die; the scorn, let it perish,
There are true angels for them to cherish.
Let them toast to those objects of well-earned awe,
Their beloved and blessed mothers-in-law.