A woman is knitting most all the day
A sock that shapes from a ball of grey,
Her fingers fly, and the needles click,
Fast grows the sock so soft and thick.
Why do you knit at such a pace,
Dear woman, with patient face?
Is it for tireless little feet,
Or covering warm for the huntsman fleet?
Or maybe for fisherman strong and bold,
Who fights the sea when the winds blow cold.
Or perhaps for the strong brave pioneer,
Who faces new worlds with dauntless air?
No, no, my child, tis for none of those
That I patiently knit in endless rows;
Tis for nearer and dearer then a broken pause,
For those who are fighting their countrys cause.
For those who sailed on the ocean wide,
To do their bit gainst a lawless tribe.
Thus, I do for my country a womans part,
Who give the pride of their mothers heart.
But what means the white row I see right here,
Is it a sign to make the pair?
No, that marks the socks for the slender youth,
Who does his part for the cause of truth.
The red is the sign for the hardy man,
At the height of his strength in lifes short span;
But young and old alike do the same,
For life or death, for honour or fame.
Blue in the sock is the medium size,
And that is why all the livelong day,
The colour dear to the sailors wives,
So in the grey socks, red, white and blue
Form our colours so bright and true.
I sit and knit in the same old way;
And into each sock I weave a prayer
That God keep our boys in His love and care.