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.