IN THE WEE SMALL HOURS OF SIXPENCE
(Brooker / Reid) 
Procol Harum


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.