Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton :: :: University of Virginia Library

That old knife,
It is of ancient mould,
It is not made of silver,
Nor yet of burnished gold.
The handle is of horn
And the blade is made of steel,
Yet not the less respect
Do I towards it feel.

'Tis not the warrior's blade
Oft sheathed in blood of men;
Thus would it not fulfil
Its being's aim and end.
Its life hath passed in peace,
Far from the battle strife,
Pursuing works of love,
Thou dear domestic knife!

Full thirty years have passed
Since first thy life begun,
And varied and toilsome
The race that thou hast run.
Thou hast been with my mother
From her first wedded life;
Thou ought'st to be respected,
Thou venerated knife.

How many tons of bread
And hundred-weights of meat
Hast thou helped to prepare
For hungry ones to eat.
Oh! could poor Ireland's son,
Who asked in tones forlorn,
“Give me three grains of corn, mother,
Only three grains of corn”—

Could he have had access
To thy profuse supply,

He had not of starvation
Thus laid him down—to die.
He might have lived, mayhap,
A long and happy life;
As long, perchance, as thou.
O antiquated knife.

What strange events have passed
Those thirty years within,
Through all thou to my mother
A faithful friend hast been.
Thou hast seen her little children
In their gambols, sports, and plays,
And thou hast e'er attended them
Through childhood's golden days.

We were a happy band,
A happy band of seven.
We all are living now,
But one has gone to heaven.
She was a fair-haired child,
Too pure on earth to roam,
Too frail to brave its chilling blasts,
So Jesus took her home.

And thou hast seen the rest
Pass one by one away,
Till in their childhood's home
But one alone doth stay.

All but that one have reached
Maturer years of age,
And gone to act their part
Upon the world's wide stage.

I, I alone remain,
The youngest of the seven;
Last of the little band
Unto our parents given.
Full fifteen years have left
Their impress on my brow,
Yet as I loved thee formerly
I love thee better now.

Thou art the last of twelve
That thirty years ago
Were bright and new as any
That modern cutlers show.
But time has hied him on,
And robbed thee of thy gloss;
Thy steel hath lost its polish,
And thy blade its edge hath lost.

Soon, soon wilt thou be numbered
Among the things that were,
But never shall thy memory
Within the breast of her

Who, gazing on the Past,
Hath penned for thee these lays,
Sink into dark Oblivion,
Relic of former days.

And should, in after years,
Cares cluster round her brow,
May she then learn to bear
As patiently as thou.
And, oh! may she fulfil
Her end and aim in life
As well as thou hast done,
Thou wise and worthy knife.