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In The Wee Small Hours of Sixpence
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Procol Harum
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1
(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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