In The Wee Small Hours Of Sixpence Songtext

In the wee small hours of sixpenceand the lighted chandelierstands a rusty old retainerwhose old eyes are filled with tearsfor his master, Good Sir Galant,who is now off to the warsAnd although his eyes are cryingwe know grief is not the causeAnd if grief is not the reasonhe must be of sterner stuffand his sword though old and rustymust be blunt as sharp enoughIn the wee small hours of sixpenceand the broken window panestand the remnants of the eveningwho are waiting all in vainfor the crowing of the cockerelshowing morning is not nightBut the air is filled with silenceand the daylight is not brightBut still darkness is no reaosnWe are men of sterner stuffand our swords though old and rustystill are blunt as sharp enough.In the wee small hours of sixpenceand the hat-stand in the hallwaiting only for the morningshadows flitting 'cross the wallAnd perhaps that old retainerWhom now giving of his allmay have once been just as we areand now has no face at all.But still grief was not the reasonhe was made of sterner stuffand his sword though old and rustystill was blunt as sharp enough.