Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BALLAD OF THE THREE SONS, by AMANDA BENJAMIN HALL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BALLAD OF THE THREE SONS, by                    
First Line: A rich man is a man
Last Line: But I have none.
Alternate Author Name(s): Brownell, John A., Mrs.
Subject(s): Family Life; Relatives


A rich man is a man
With tall sons by his side,
Lads long enough of limb to take
A corn-field at a stride!

A man with full-grown sons
Should be watchful, he should keep
Bright and burning to protect them --
Lads grow tired. . . they must sleep. . .

As a mother at her breast
Holds the nursing infant's life,
He should trust them to no neighbor,
Nor his own God, nor his wife.

My wife bore me two sons --
I held my head high;
Knowing my sons would live for me
When I should come to die. . .

My wife she bore a third, . .
But the third was torture-limbed --
Not like the two whose trunks were straight
As trees, and neatly trimmed!

Orrin and John were keen,
But 'twas the Lord's grim pleasure,
In weighing out a mind for him,
To give poor Clyde half measure,

And so dilute our healthy stock.
Eyes vacant as his wit,
He lived a feeble useless fool;
'Twas pain to see him sit,

Dull, in his mother's kitchen
Beside her chimney nook.
Though years went past he could not tell
The letters in a book,

But loved the common meadow flowers,
And he would finger these
Until they wilted in his hand
Between his crooked knees;

And had strange fancy for the birds,
And notionally kept
A little winter sparrow once --
And when it died he wept. . .

But though the fibre of his wits
Was poor and loosely woven,
His mother taught him tirelessly
While the bread was in the oven,

Giving him all her love,
With scarcely thought for others.
It almost seemed that she begrudged
The hale health of his brothers,

And hated those who pitied her,
Intending to be kind.
Though only she could find the way
Through turnings of his mind,

She held him as her one ewe lamb,
This creature hardly human,
Because he stayed at home with her --
May God forgive the woman!

She said, "Of all the sons I've reared
I've but one loving son;
The others went too soon from me --
'Twas run, run, run,

"As little tads, and when they grew
And were too old for play,
Their father set his hands on them
And bore them both away.

"Now Orrin and John grow soft in spring
As the down of the pussywillow,
And soon the mother'll be forgot
For a wife's head on the pillow!

"But gentle Clyde will stay with me,
Long in his kitchen seat,
And I will pour his drink for him,
And I will cut his meat. . ."

A woman's ravings! Peace to her --
I had my goodly yield,
My lovely sons who laughed all day
And sweated in the field.

Broad backs bent until they straightened,
Dripping and immense;
They had cheerful hands for milking
Or for making fence.

They knew sheep and how to cross them
With the proper choice of rams.
In the lonely nights of April,
When the ewes would drop their lambs,

They were skilful; at the shearing
Cool to calm the frightened beast
Till, as naked as a baby
Out of blanket, it was fleeced!

And the same way with our cattle,
Working hard and nothing halving. . .
O my wise sons, O my helpers,
How I miss you at the calving!

Sweet as cider from the mill,
But strong as cider aged,
Ever hearty and unbeaten
In the battles that they waged,

They could set maids' hearts aflutter
At the yearly county fair;
And folk did not mean our oxen
When they whispered, "What a pair!"

Beautiful as grain at harvest
Were my gallant reapers!
Night fell suddenly upon them --
They were heavy sleepers. . .

Safe and sound I left them,
Coming dark, to go
To the town for early market
In the morning. You should know

That their bed was in the attic
Of the house long built,
Where they lay beneath the rafter
And their grandmother's patched quilt.

It was autumn, nearing winter,
And the ground all hoary.
Crazy Clyde was resting ill
In the second storey,

Plagued by some dim recollection
Of a mischef he had done
Late that evening, with two live coals
He had lifted just for fun

From the stove, his mother busy
With the dishes, till she turned
And helped him hobble up to bed,
Unknowing that they burned

Like two red eyes into the floor.
Hours later she woke:
The moon shone, but the room was grey
And ghostly with the smoke,

As if a monstrous spider wove
A web. She saw it growing.
She says she heard a horrid sound
That was the north wind blowing. . .

And then, God help her, her one thought
And only living dread
Was for the idiot who slept
Close by in his small bed!

She roused him. When she had him up
Her frenzy made him shudder.
He fought her. She'd no way to steer
That brain without a rudder.

Resisting with a stubborn will
What she would have him do,
He feared and knew not what he feared:
She beat him black and blue,

And anger made her over-strong
And terror made her wise --
If once she had him on the floor
The cripple could not rise. . .

And so she schemed to save the thing
She should have left to die.
My sons lay dreaming overhead --
The house was high,
And very old and dry. . .

The flames climbed upward step by step
As she went down the stair --
A lioness with her strange whelp
Dangling by the hair,

A worthless pulp of flesh and blood,
Torn as in a rack;
And when she dragged him through the door
He fought her to go back!

She tore her night-gown into strips
And, naked to the skin,
She tied him to an orchard tree.
Then her lamenting din

Ascended with the fire until
It reached the two above,
The luckless sleepers in their bed --
Her afterthought of love!

The winding stair was like a flue,
And deeper than a well,
When down they plunged through smoke and flame
As spirits do to hell. . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
Next morning nothing much remained
To mark that midnight revel,
The pickets smoking in the gate,
The ground level. . .

My wife she met me in the road,
She rung her hands and raved.
I had two golden sons and great --
I saw what she had saved

To be my son for all my days,
My heavy heart to cumber
In this rough hut we call our home.
A man needs more than lumber,

Mortar and tiles to build a house --
He needs his warm hopes too!
The half wit fills his mother's days
Just as he used to do --

For fatherhood and motherhood
Are separate strange things. . .
My wife she tends the lad she saved,
And when he smiles, she sings.

My wife cries, "Shame on your hard heart,
And you his lawful sire!"
I answer her, "I had two sons --
They perished in the fire."

The mother's love is for the weak
She cannot hope to cure,
But the father's love is for the strong
Who make his stock endure.

I had two lovely sons,
I was a man endowed;
But the sun will rise tomorrow
And find my fields unplowed.

The sun will rise tomorrow
And peer in at the door,
And I will tell him that my lads
Were never late before. . .

I'll tell him by this time last year
The plowing had been done.
My wife she has a living child
But I have none.





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