In the wee small hours of sixpence

And the lighted chandelier

Stands a rusty old retainer

Whose old eyes are filled with tears

For his master, good sir galant,

Who is now off to the wars

And although his eyes are crying

We know grief is not the cause

And if grief is not the reason

He must be of sterner stuff

And his sword though old and rusty

Must be blunt as sharp enough



In the wee small hours of sixpence

And the broken window pane

Stand the remnants of the evening

Who are waiting all in vain

For the crowing of the cockerel

Showing morning is not night

But the air is filled with silence

And the daylight is not bright

But still darkness is no reason

We are men of sterner stuff

And our swords though old and rusty

Still are blunt as sharp enough.



In the wee small hours of sixpence

And the hat-stand in the hall

Waiting only for the morning

Shadows flitting 'cross the wall

And perhaps that old retainer

Whom now giving of his all

May have once been just as we are

And now has no face at all.

But still grief was not the reason

He was made of sterner stuff

And his sword though old and rusty

Still was blunt as sharp enough.