The Hidden Ribs

Mother Jones: A Gift From Ireland Mother Jones 1830-1930 An unlikely Rebel “The abuses in the mines are far too great to compare. Is there any justice for the immigrant's short life. Will no one his far great burdens share. What of his children and his loving wife.” “Ten years it takes before you miners die, Ten years in the mine of blood and sweat, Ten years before your family starts to cry, And no tombstone for the grave we regret.” “I, Mother Jones, an immigrant who does care Shall see that we do more for your protection. I shall organize you and serve notice beware The enemy shall give us great rejection.” “Over the years the struggle is long and stout. They think at eighty-one; I am given out. My temper is just a bit shorter, not light. I stand my ground firmly: take me to the fight.” “They beat our children Paint Creek a bloody mess They beat my mother” “All is lost today The widows cry, “We lave lost. Bullets took their lives.” “Have they taken your souls, men? They can't; they don't know where to begin.” “We'll leave this village of tents; We'll march and til ears be bent.” Over the hill three thousand strong Marched to Charleston to deliver their song. Governor, we men so tired, implore, “Take their murderers away by the score.” “Place the militia which we trust. They won't beat my mother or kill us.” The Governor raised his mighty hand, “It is done, say I, the ruler of this land.” On the way to Red Warrior Camp one day Her buggy traveled through the creek bed. The roads were the owners: so to the creek she'll stay. But the Men who followed on foot the rails did tread. Bullets started flying: the men behind a rock Mother Jones started screaming, “What a crock.” Mr. Mayfield: machine gun for a hand did wreak, “Back away old lady or blood shall fill this creek.” She lay her palm across the end of the muzzle, “It's okay to pass, these men won't us nuzzle.” “Are you crazy,” Mayfield stated. “No sir: well maybe,” she related. “Sir you see those hills just above you. 500 men with guns that do not love you. If this creek today fills with blood. It shall first be filled with Mayfield crud.” The men all passed while her hand over the barrel. Around the bend they went with nary a frazzle. She smiled with her beady little eyes And back to her buggy to Mr. Mayfield's demise. Well he could have waited till the cows came home. Not a sound from those hills did he hear a roam. It's so very hard to raise up a scare From 500 men who never were there. To Wineberg when she was eighty-three. Mr. Mayfield again as angry as can be, “Private property: walk in the creek.” The waters are cold and very deep. He smiled like a bird who just ate the cat. “Mr. Mayfield,” said a reporter, "She can't do that.” Off with her stockings: off with shoes, “Mr. Mayfield: watch yourself lose.” The waters she noticed were ice cold. But Mother Jones 's feet were ever too bold. All the men followed behind her icy trail, “Mr. Mayfield watch: I do not fail.” “If there were a way to thank you What would we say, Mother J. If we could real back to the times of blue We would ask if you could pray.” “Mother-J Of Ireland Thou Hast our Eternal gratitude for Reviving our spirits and showing up the Jackanapes, Mother-J.” She lived one hundred years before her fade-away. Her body was old and she simply could no longer stay. So at ninety-five she wrote a book for all to see. And where is it today: it's in a nook: not hidden from me. Mother Jones or Mary Harris Jones was born in Ireland in 1830 and died in 1930. She fought to organize miners as she came from a mining family. The cruel treatment of miners was far too much for her to bear. In her eighties she placed her hand over the muzzle of a machine gun and told a group of minors to pass freely. She looked like someone's grandmother and was a spitfire for protection of the miners. With her help the mining industry became accountable for needless endangerments.