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Debra Cowan
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Dad's Dinner Pail
Preserve that old kettle, so black and so worn;
It belonged to my father before I was born;
It hung in a corner beyond on a nail
'Twas the emblem of labor, my dad's dinner pail
CHORUS: For it glistened like silver, so sparkling and bright;
I am fond of the trifle that held his wee bite;
In summer or winter, in snow, rain or hail,
I've carried that kettle, my dad's dinner pail.
When the bell rang for mealtime my father'd come down —
He'd eat with the workmen about on the ground;
He'd share with the laborer and he'd go the bail,
You'd never reach the bottom of dad's dinner pail.
CHORUS
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If the day should be rainy my fathe'd stop home,
And he'd polish his kettle as clane as a stone;
He'd joke with my mother and me he would whale
If I put a finger on dad's dinner pail.
CHORUS
There's a place for the coffee and also for bread,
The corned beef and praties, and oft it was said:
'Go fill it with porter, with beer or with ale;'
The drink would taste sweeter from dad's dinner pail.
CHORUS
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