(Brooker / Reid) *
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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
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he was made of sterner stuff
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and his sword though old and rusty
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still was blunt as sharp enough.
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In The Wee Small Hours Of Sixpence
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| Procol Harum |
