"The Flag My Grandpa Knew"
I remember how, each morning, he’d rise before us all
And I’d hear his muffled footsteps, as he padded down the hall
The many years he’d labored, had left his body bent and gray
But Grandpa had a reason, for getting up each day
A well-worn box sat on a shelf, beside his rocking chair
I don’t know where it came from, seems it always had been there
Inside, the box, a tattered cloth, of crimson, blue, and white
And he’d gaze at it each morning, with tears that dimmed his sight
On special days, he raised it still, on the pole outside our door
And he’d tell us kids, in reverent tones, what that tattered cloth stood for
The red reminds me of the Wheat field, where Pickett’s men were slain
When seven thousand good men fell, amidst the bloodied grain
The blue, I guess, brings back to mind, the loneliness and cold
Of a Shenandoah winter, a thousand miles from home
And the pure white stars, well they’re Generals, for Jackson, Stuart, and Bee
And that big one in the middle there, is for Robert Edward Lee!
Each bullet hole is a battle won, each tear is a comrade lost
Each stain is for a wounded friend, who paid the final cost
Ol’ Grandpa must have loved that flag, he stayed near it every day
And so Grandpa took it with him, when he finally passed away
And if there’s a flagpole up in heaven, there’s no tear in Grandpa’ eye
‘Cause I know he’s back in uniform, and his beloved flag flies high!
.... Ronnie Hatfield