Preserve that old kettle all blacken’d and worn.
It belonged to my father before I was born;
It hung in a corner beyan’d on a nail;
“Twas the an emblem of labor, was Dad’s dinner pail.
It glistens like silver, so sparkling and bright,
I’m fond of the trifle that held his wee bite;
In Summer and Winter, in rain, snow or hail,
“Twas an emblem of labor, was dad’s dinner pail.
When the bell rang for mealtime my father’d come down,
He ate with the workmen about on the ground;
He’d share wid a laborer and say he’d go bail,
You would ne’er reach the bottom of dad’s dinner pail.
If the day should be rainy my father’d stop home,
And he’d polish his kettle as clane as a stone;
He’s joke wid me mother, at me he would wale
If I just put a finger on Dad’s dinner pail.
There’s a place for the coffee and also the bread,
The corn beef and pratties and oft it was said
Go fill it wid porter, wid beer or wid ale,
The drinks would taste sweeter from Dad’s dinner pail.