Dad’s Old Grindstone

Under a spreading russet bough,

     Uncared for and alone,

Through summer’s sun and winter’s snow

     Has stood dad’s old grindstone.

And I in fancy see it now

     Almost with weeds o’ergrown.

How well I reckylect each morn

     When dad would call to me,

At break uv day to come an’ turn

     The stone beneath the tree.

An’ ev’ry whirl she’d squeak an’ groan,

An’ much exerted be.

My han’s ‘ud blister, peel an’ tear,

     But I made ne’er a face;

‘Twas better to be blistered there

     Than on some other place.

So, while the lark-songs filled the air

     The grindin’ went apace.

I steal from town life oft in ruth

     An’ look the ol’ scenes through.

An’ though it soun’s a bit uncouth

     I find these words come true:

“The work I dreaded so in youth,

     I now would gladly do.”

I’m turning now the stone of life,

     A-grindin’ fortune’s blade;

With nicks an’ cracks extremely rife

     An’ ruther poorly made.

An’ oft the stone squeaks in the strife

     Like dad’s beneath the shade.

Feb. 7, ‘91