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 pennyweight 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. In watching its pendulum swing to and fro, Many hours had he spent while a boy; And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know And to share both his grief and his joy, For it struck 24 when he entered at the door With a blooming and beautiful bride; But it stopped short — never to go again — When the old man died. Ninety years without slumbering Tick, tock, tick, tock His life's seconds numbering Tick tock, tick, tock. 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 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 pluming for flight — That his hour of 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 Tick, tock, tick, tock His life's seconds numbering Tick tock, tick, tock. It stopped short — never to go again — When the old man died.
