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In the wee small hours of sixpence |
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And the lighted chandelier |
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Stands a rusty old retainer |
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Whose old eyes are filled with tears |
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For his master, Good Sir Galant, |
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Who is now off to the wars |
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And although his eyes are crying |
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We know grief is not the cause |
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And if grief is not the reason |
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He must be of sterner stuff |
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And his sword though old and rusty |
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Must be blunt as sharp enough |
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In the wee small hours of sixpence |
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And the broken window pane |
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Stand the remnants of the evening |
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Who are waiting all in vain |
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For the crowing of the cockerel |
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Showing morning is not night |
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But the air is filled with silence |
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And the daylight is not bright |
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But still darkness is no reason |
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We are men of sterner stuff |
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And our swords though old and rusty |
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Still are blunt as sharp enough. |
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In the wee small hours of sixpence |
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And the hat-stand in the hall |
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Waiting only for the morning |
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Shadows flitting 'cross the wall |
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And perhaps that old retainer |
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Whom now giving of his all |
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May have once been just as we are |
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And now has no face at all. |
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But still grief was not the reason |
|
He was made of sterner stuff |
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And his sword though old and rusty |
|
Still was blunt as sharp enough. |
