My Grandfather’s clock,    Was too large for the shelf,   So it stood ninety years on the floor,   It was taller by half,    Than the old man himself,   Though it weighed,    Not a penny weight more.   It was bought on the morn’,    Of the day that he was born,   And was always his treasure and pride,   But it stopped short, never to go again,   When the old man died.      Ninety years without slumbering,   His life seconds numbering,   It stopped short, never to go again,   When the old man died.      My Grandfather said,    That of those he could hire,   Not a servant so faithful he’d found,   For it wasted no time,    And had but one desire,   At the close of each week to be wound.   And it kept in its place,    Not a frown upon its face,   And its hands never hung by its side,   But it stopped short, never to go again,   When the old man died.      It rang an alarm,    In the dead of the night,   An alarm that for years,    Had been dumb,   And we knew that his spirit,    Was blooming for flight,   That his hour for departure had come.   Still the clock kept the time,    With a soft and muffled chime,   As we silently stood by his side,   But it stopped short, never to go again,   When the old man died.      Ninety years without slumbering,   His life seconds numbering,   It stopped short, never to go again,   When the old man died.