(brooker / reid) *      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.