Preserve that old kettle, so blackened and worn;
It belonged to my father before I was born;
It hung in a corner beyant on a nail—
'Twas the emblem of labor, my dad's dinner pail.

Chorus:

It glistened like silver, so sparkling and bright;
I am fond of the trifle that held his wee bite;
In summer or winter, in snow, rain or hail,
I've carried that kettle, my dad's dinner pail.
When the bell rang for mealtime my father'd come down—
He'd eat with the workmen about on the ground;
He'd share with the laborer and he'd go bail,
You would never reach the bottom of dad's dinner pail.
If the day should be rainy my father'd stop home,
And he'd polish his kettle as clane as a stone;
He'd joke with my mother and me he would whale
If I put a finger on dad's dinner pail.
There's a place for the coffee and also for bread,
The corned beef and praties, and oft it was said:
“Go fill it with porter, with beer or with ale;”
The drink would taste sweeter from dad's dinner pail.