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I wonder how they dug the graves and shoveled in their young. When grass was your last supper your reserves are clearly done. My forebears wouldn't" take the soup", they wouldn't sell their souls. So perhaps determination, then, gave them strength to dig those holes. To starve in the midst of plenty was the saddest sight on earth, but to their London Landlords Irish serfs held little worth. It's known that a potato blight was the famines primal cause, but I still blame beef eating men and the cold uncaring laws.
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Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
In Famine Times (an Drochshaol )
I wonder how they dug the graves and shoveled in their young. When grass was your last supper your reserves are clearly done. My forebears wouldn't" take the soup", they wouldn't sell their souls. So perhaps determination, then, gave them strength to dig those holes. To starve in the midst of plenty was the saddest sight on earth, but to their London Landlords Irish serfs held little worth. It's known that a potato blight was the famines primal cause, but I still blame beef eating men and the cold uncaring laws.
A poem about the Potato famine in Ireland circa 1848
john-f-mccullagh
Written by
63/M/American
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
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