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.