Post by Administrator on Feb 5, 2020 12:30:22 GMT
THE OLD RED DUSTER
One wintry evening cold and gray,
My father beckoned me,
To come and sit by firelight,
Where a gift he gave to me.
He handed me a canvas bag,
Brass grommets long turned green.
I felt a knot form in my throat,
Where thank you should have been.
Break that sacred fabric out,
My father said to me.
And the scarlet folds, they tumbled down,
Across my shaking knee.
That's the weave we're made of son,
Seafaring men as we.
Beneath the Old Red Duster,
We've sailed on every sea.
Yes, true, she's but the merchant flag,
But I can tell you will.
No prouder battle flag has flown,
Over rolling ocean swell.
And so I pass this on to you,
My father said to me,
Getting up to poke the coals,
He gave my arm a squeeze.
By Ian A. Millar
One wintry evening cold and gray,
My father beckoned me,
To come and sit by firelight,
Where a gift he gave to me.
He handed me a canvas bag,
Brass grommets long turned green.
I felt a knot form in my throat,
Where thank you should have been.
Break that sacred fabric out,
My father said to me.
And the scarlet folds, they tumbled down,
Across my shaking knee.
That's the weave we're made of son,
Seafaring men as we.
Beneath the Old Red Duster,
We've sailed on every sea.
Yes, true, she's but the merchant flag,
But I can tell you will.
No prouder battle flag has flown,
Over rolling ocean swell.
And so I pass this on to you,
My father said to me,
Getting up to poke the coals,
He gave my arm a squeeze.
By Ian A. Millar