O'er that southern battlefield.
Our northern men fought bravely,
Choosing death before they'd yield.
The dead and wounded lay in windrows,
Evey man some mother's son.
'Twas so hard to die in battle
By bayonet or by gun.
There was one among the number,
A mere child he looked to be.
Must war take its bloody toll
From those so young as he?
"Water! Mother! give me water,"
He would cry into the night,
And no-one was there to hear him,
But those wounded in the fight.
Then he rose upon his elbow,
For he heard his mother's hymn.
Through that starless southern night
It was wafted out to him.
He lay back quite exhausted,
But his pain is easier now.
'Twas so good to hear his mother,
Feel her hand upon his brow
Hear her say how much she loved him
As she clasped him to her breast,
Have her smooth the covers o'er
As she tucked him in to rest.
But he had some lucid moments,
Lying on that blood drenched sod.
Then he'd raise his hands to heaven,
"I'm so thirsty, help me God."
The boys had called him, "Mother's baby"
And the taunt was hard to bear,
Though he always took it bravely,
Tried to think he did not care.
Now it seemed that, "Mother's baby"
Was always ringing in his ears,
And lying there in that strange darkness
He could scarce keep back the tears.
How he longed to see his mother,
And for her he tried to pray,
Knowing not the shock had killed her
When her boy had run away.
When word came his elder brother
Had been killed at Gettysburg,
He at once went and enlisted,
And to home did not return.
Did not need his mother's care,
But more to evade the sad, sad parting.
Mother's tears he would not bear.
He was loaded on a freight train
With all those other boys and men,
Little thinking on that long ride,
He'd never see his home again.
They unloaded after nightfall,
In that strange, warm southern clime.
He was homesick for his mother,
But for tears there was to time.
Next morn the General was reviewing
The bunch of new recruits,
Some mere boys, but all resplendent
In brass-buttoned soldier suits.
And as he looked them over,
He paused and said real slow,
"It beats all how many babies
Just eighteen years ago."
Many boys had lied their ages,
And the General knew it too,
But men were badly needed,
They had let them all go through.
They were pressed into the service,
With no training for the fight.
Now our boy lay badly wounded,
Torn with pain all through the night.
How he wished the night were over,
And he'd see the break of day.
Pain and thirst again assailed
Him and his reason took away.
He was home again with mother,
In that little northern town,
Saw his schoolmates and his brother,
As they went marching up and down.
Heard again the martial music,
Played to get men to enlist.
All at once the tune struck up
That he could not resist.
He tried to rise upon his elbow,
But fell back weak with pain.
He lay still and listened feebly,
And he heard the song again.
There next morn his comrades found him,
On that gory southern sod,
He'd laid down his life for country.
Mother's Baby was with God.
She was born on Christmas day, 1875 in Montcalm Twp., Michigan.
Her father was Orrin L. Ervay and her uncles were James A., George W. and Norman Ervay.
The poem, "Mother's Baby" was written about George who died on Little Round Top on 6 July during the Battle of Gettysburg.
Grandma Root wrote many poems throughout her lifetime, usually about those things most dear to her, her children, her grand and great grand children and her community.
She wrote articles for the local paper, many of which were travelogs of her tours through the northern part of her beloved Michigan.