enough in the way of writing, because it's real—like your Trowbridge."
"Oh, will you repeat it for me!" I said.
"It is called, 'Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother.' It is of a famine in Ireland a great many years ago—a lad and his mother starving."
And then she went on:
"'Give me three grains of corn, mother,
Give me three grains of corn,
'Twill 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.
Give me three grains of corn,
'Twill 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.
A wolf that is fierce for blood,
All the livelong day and the night, beside—
Gnawing for lack of food.
