"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice,
And pity's gathering tear; "Come in, come in, my poor woman,
Ye 're kindly welcome here.
"I kentna o' your aching heart,
Your weary lot to dree; I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words:
'They are dear fish to me!'"
Ay, let the happy-hearted learn
To pause ere they deny The meed of honest toil, and think
How much their gold may buy,—
How much of manhood's wasted strength,
What woman's misery,— What breaking hearts might swell the cry:
"They are dear fish to me!"
ANONYMOUS.
GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER.
THE IRISH FAMINE.
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 to 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.