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