Somewhere in Persia years ago or so the story runs,

A family I'll never know with six or seven sons

And lovely daughters eight or nine a bread loaf and a jug,

Using the "tree of life" design, began to weave a rug

They wove by day and wove by night, their fingers seldom still.

A bird at rest, a bird in flight, they wove with magic skill.

Through days of weal and days of woe the pattern lovelier grew,



But where that rug at last would go I'm sure they never knew.

I'm told dear old mother died long ere the task was done.

Before the last small knot was tied the father journeyed on

But still the family wove with care, nor bitter sighs and tears,

Nor all the heartaches mortals bear, could stay those toilsome years,

So sad the tale, I almost wept, to hear it told to me

At Kermanshah that rug was kept. Till nineteen thirthy-free,

And then by camel and by cart Twas carried to the sea,

And yesterday a salesman smart unloaded it to me.