See this next page. That's grandad. I recall 
How mother used to bring me here each year 
And how he took me on his knee and said 
I was his boy. And how I used to fear 
That bristly beard that shook and trembled when 
The old man spoke. It seems his booming voice 
I still can hear though years it has been stilled. 
His favorite grandchild, me. I was his choice 
And took precedence over all the rest.  

That sword so bright and burnished by his side 
He gave it to me. I have it home among 
My things held dear. Oft' have I tried 
To find the scabbard, but it seems 'twas lost 
Somewhere upon the field of Shiloh: still 
It may turn up; strange things occur you know. 
You wish me luck? The next page, if you will. 

         Sandy Doone.