A farmer through and through,
Standing in old gumboots,
Bought by this grandson,
From first wages paid
So many moons ago.
The old black face wrinkled
By the rain, wind and sun,
Wrinkled from the daily toil,
Of making a living
From the dying soil.

There were many memories,
Kept in your old man's head,
Few of which we know,
For you were a man of very few words.
And the years continued on,
And took their toll
Until you just shuffled along.

And yet, you never seemed to get in the way,
Of you grandchildren doing youth's play,
But a little advise or story, here and there
That somehow showed us the right way.

And in your twilight years,
You lasted long enough to see,
Your great grand children,
And I know you felt some pride
In this loving crowd.

But I will always remember you
Standing and working in the fields,
Strong and powerful and proud,
Oh, how we will all miss you
Now that you have died.