MY DAD'S DINNER-PAIL.
Copyright, 1883, by Wm. A. Pond & Co.
Written and sung by Edward Harrigan.
Preserve that old kettle, so blackened and worn,
It belonged to my father before I was born;
It hung in a corner beyant on a nail,
'Twas an emblem of labor, my dad's dinner-pail.
It glistened like silver, so sparkling and bright,
I am fond of the trifle that held his wee bite;
In Summer or Winter, in rain, snow or hail,
I've carried that kettle, my dad's dinner-pail.
When the bell rang for meal time, my father'd come down,
He'd ate with the workmen about on the ground,
He'd share with a laborer, and say he'd go bail,
You would ne'er reach the bottom of dad's dinner-pail.-Chorus.
If the day should be rainy, ray father'd stop home,
And he'd polish his kettle as clane as a stone.
He'd joke wid me mother, an' me he would wail,
If I'd just put a finger on dad's dinner-pail.-Chorus.
There's a place for the coffee and also the bread.
The corned beef and praties, and oft it was said,
Go fill it wid porter, wid beer or wid ale,
The drink would taste sweeter from dad's dinner-pail.-Chorus.