PoeticPundit

PoeticPunditry By Amelia Blanford Edwards, 1831-1892
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Mother's Day, 2007
Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother

potatofamine.gif

Give me three grains of corn, Mother,
   Only three grains of corn;
It will keep the little life I have
   Till the coming of the morn.
I am dying of hunger and cold, Mother,
   Dying of hunger and cold;
And half the agony of such a death
   My lips have never told.
 
It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, Mother,
   A wolf that is fierce for blood;
All the livelong day, and the night beside,
   Gnawing for lack of food.
I dreamed of bread in my sleep, Mother,
   And the sight was heaven to see;
I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
   But you had no bread for me.
 
How could I look to you, Mother,
   How could I look to you
For bread to give your starving boy,
   When you were starving too?
For I read the famine in your cheek,
   And in your eyes so wild,
And I felt it in your bony hand,
   As you laid it on your child.
 
The Queen has lands and gold, Mother,
   The Queen has lands and gold,
While you are forced to your empty breast
   A skeleton babe to hold --
A babe that is dying of want, Mother,
   As I am dying now,
With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
   And famine upon its brow.
 
What has poor Ireland done, Mother,
   What has poor Ireland done,
That the world looks on, and sees us starve,
  Perishing one by one?
Do the men of England care not, Mother,
   The great men and the high,
For the suffering sons of Erin's Isle,
   Whether they live or die?
 
There is many a brave heart here, Mother,
   Dying of want and cold,
While only across the Channel, Mother,
   Are many that roll in gold;
There are rich and proud men there, Mother,
   With wonderful wealth to view,
And the bread that they fling to their dogs tonight
   Would give life to me and you.
 
 

shamrocks.jpg

Come nearer to my side, Mother,
   Come nearer to my side,
And  hold me fondly, as you held
   My father when he died;
Quick, for I cannot see you, Mother,
   My breath is almost gone;
Mother! Dear Mother! ere I die,
   Give me three grains of corn.
 
 
 
 
The Irish Potato Famine (about 1845-1850) killed an estimated million Irish from want and starvation.
 
Whether you entered this page from a link on  my home page or in Irish Potato Famine in the Poe&Picasso page, please press your BACK button to return.
 

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There's a special magic about Mark Little.
 
He's my son and that makes him special. And he's your Daddy and that certainly makes him special. But there's a special magic about him that you won't find in all sons or all Daddies, and if I tell you something about him, maybe we can figure out just what his magic is all about.
 
He was a quiet and thoughtful little boy. Not the type that would organize a softball game, but the type that would learn his school lessons with ease.
 
He was thrilled when he brought home from the first grade a small book his teacher, Mrs. Shaffer, had made for him and his classmates. It was made of two small sheets of paper stapled together to make eight pages, and she had DITTO'D (that was an old-fashioned way of making copies) some drawings of a rabbit and a simple little story and the name of the booklet was "The Rabbit Ran." There were only about a dozen different words in the story.
 
But the important thing was: Mark could read it all by himself. And he's been reading ever since.
 
He was born in Deasrborn, Michigan, on July 21, 1961, and we moved to Mansfield, Ohio when he was five. We lived in a three-bedroom house on Yorkwood Road, but later finished the basement and that's where Mark had his bedroom.
 
Mark and his brothers, your Uncle Steve and Uncle Dave, all liked music. For years we bought season tickets to the Mansfield Symphony concerts at Malabar High School, three blocks from our home.
 
Mark and Steve took piano lessons. Later, Mark took violin lessons and played in the orchestra at Appleseed Junior high school and then at Malabar High school, and when he was in college eh taught himself to play the classical guitar.
 
Steve quit taking piano lessons because he got bored with the simple little pieces, but later he taught himself to play the piano, and taught himself very well.In high school he played slide trombone in the marching band,
 
Dave took only a few lessons, but taught himself to play the acoustic guitar and electric guitar. Then he got a good buy on a used keyboard and brought friends out to the house to jam with soft rock music.
 
All three boys went to Mansfield's Ranchwood Elementary School. It was a nice neighborhood and a number of the boys' friends were sons of doctors.
 
Mark always liked poetry. In about the second grade he learned about pollution; that was in the 'sixties when Americans were just beginning to talk a lot about the environment. His class was assigned to write about pollution, so Mark wrotehis very first poem:
 
         "Polution is bad. Pollution we have had.
         Now we have too much, and soon we can't do
         such a thing as living."
 
They built a new shopping mall, Richlan Mall, west of Mansfield, and it had a sunken lounge with benches for resting. Next to the lounge was a pet store, and the boys always insisted on stopping there to look at the pets. One day as we rested in the lounge Mark and Steve (Dave was too young) borrowed some pencils and used the blank side of some adverising papers andbegan drawing pictures of rabbits. They told us there was a prize for the best drawing.
 
Then we looked at Doktor's Pet Store. It was nearly Easter, and in the window was a sign "DRAWING FOR A FREE RABBIT."
 
I about the second grade Mark learned about the Americn Indians, He really got interested, and began making Indian drums and peace pipes. I told him about flint arrowheads, and that people are still finding them today. Later that day I found him digging a hole in the back yard. He was confident he was going to find some arrowheads,
 
All three of the boys went through the Cub Scouts (you had to be eight to join) and Boy Scouts (you had to be eleven). The Cubs were organized as Pack 107 and met at Ranchwood School. For seven years, from the time Marked jopined the cubs until Dave went up to Scouts, I was the Cubmaster, and for much of that time their mother was a Den Mother.
 
Cub Scouts age eight and nine were considered too young to go camping in the wilds. Bit the rules permitted them to have sleepouts in someone's back yard, if there were parents and telephones available. I think those eight-year-olds were too young, for when the pack had a sleepout in a Den Mother's yard some of them brought their teddy bears as sleeping partners.
 
But ten-year-old Cubs were eligible to join a Webelos den to help them get ready for Boy Scouts. They could go camping in the wilds if they had plenty of adults along. Once our Webelos Den camped out at the Boy Scout camp - seven boys, all with their fathers.  Scott Young's dad was a doctor with a family practice. Brad Banko's dad was a pediatrician. Greg Auchard's dad was a bone specialist. Alan Lindquist's dad was a pathologist. Keith Kine's dad was a dentist. Jeff Jolley's dad, and Mark's dad, were the only two that were not in the medical field. We joked about having plenty of medical help in case of an accident.
 
When Mark joined Boy Scouts he was small for his age. That alway bothered him a lot, and having the last name of "Little" didn't help matters, either.
 
Some of the older scouts were making plans to go backpacking at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. Bruce Drushel, who had hiked Philmont the year before, was giving a talk to the troop, and told them "If you're in good shape it will be easy, but if you're not in good shape it will be pretty tought. And if you're like Markey Little, well, I don't think you should go to Philmont at all." There was laughter. For years Mark resented that cut-down. He made up his mind that, when he'd hike Philmont, he'd be out in front of the whole troop.
 
Love,