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34 |
BLUE GRASS BALLADS |
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THE OLD GRINDSTONE.
I'm glad the old thing's broken,
And its bench is torn apart; When I was but a sapling
Of a boy, it broke my heart. There it lies, dismantled, ruined,
And 'tis joy to see it prone, That instrument of torture,
The old grindstone.
I stand upon its segments—
Nearly buried where they lie— And memory of that anguish
Brings a tear into my eye. I am glad the days of sorrow,
That it brought to me, have flown, And I can stand and stamp upon
The old grindstone.
So many days in summer,
When the fish were biting fine, I've yearned to tantalize them
With my brand-new hook and line, But had to work the handle
Until wearied to the bone, And turn, till I was dizzy,
The old grindstone. |
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