Dear old Old Clock, thy grave tick tock
I heard in my childhood days,
In the solemn night, when the fire burned bright,
And the lamp cast feeble rays;
When grandmother close by the mantelpiece,
Sat dozing or knitting, or carding fleece,
Or watching the dying blaze;
When mother was young and her beautiful hair
Had never a silver thread;
When her life was fair as her love was rare,
In the years that have swiftly sped.
Thy grave tick tock, dear old Old Clock,
Unchanged through the changing years,
Still beating time in a ceaseless rhyme
To the dirge of the rolling spheres,—
Unmindful that she by the mantelpiece
Is gone with her knitting and carding fleece,—
Unmoved by our sorrowing tears —
Brings back the days when mother's hair
Had never a silver thread,
And the life still fair in its beauty rare
When the snows had crowned her head.