My father’s hands, pure strength that raised and wrought

A life from out the unforgiving grange,

Where nerve and sinewed toil so filled the pot

To keep our humble table well maintained.

By wit he bartered for the clothes we wore

And mended yet the roof above our heads;

There on his arms we saw the scars he bore

As he each night would tuck us into bed.

Though taciturn, he spoke through loving eyes

And all he said, pure wisdom so to heed;

Wry stories that he told best served to guide,

With every action set to suit our need.

In pride I seek to best his loving hand—

That I might make a father half as grand.