My Grandfather's Clock
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.
Ninety years without slumbering,
tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
tick, tock, tick, tock,
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 twenty-four
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 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 it’s hands never hung by its side.
But it stopped short, never to go again,
When the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering,
tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
tick, tock, tick, tock,
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 its side.
But it stopped short, never to go again,
When the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering,
tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short never to go again,
When the old man died.
Lyrics and Music by Henry Clay Work (1876)
Click to listen to midi.
Grandpa
My grandpa is the finest man
Excep' my pa. My grandpa can
Make kites an' carts an' lots of things
You pull along the ground with strings,
And he knows all the names of birds,
And how they call 'thout using words,
And where they live and what they eat,
And how they build their nests so neat.
He's lots of fun! Sometimes all day
He comes to visit me and play.
You see he's getting old, and so
To work he doesn't have to go,
And when it isn't raining, he
Drops in to have some fun with me.
He takes my hand and we go out
And everything we talk about,
He tells me how God makes the trees,
And why it hurts to pick up bees.
Sometimes he stops and shows to me
The place where fairies used to be;
And then he tells me stories, too,
And I am sorry when he's through.
When I am asking him for more
He says: "Why there's a candy store!
Let's go there and see if they
Have got the kind we like to-day."
Then when we get back home my ma
Says: "You are spoiling Buddy, Pa."
My grandpa is my mother's pa,
I guess that's what all grandpas are.
And sometimes ma, all smiles, will say:
"You didn't always act that way,
When I was little then you said
That children should be sent to bed
And not allowed to rule the place
And lead old folks a merry chase."
And grandpa laughs and says: "That's true,
That's what I used to say to you.
It's a father's place to show
The young the way that they should go,
But grandpas have a different task,
Which is to get them all they ask."
When I get big and old and gray
I'm going to spend my time in play;
I'm going to be a grandpa too,
And do as all the grandpas do,
I'll buy my daughter's children things
Like horns and drums and tops with strings,
And tell them all about the trees
And frogs and fish and birds and bees
And fairies in the shady glen
And tales of giants, too, and when
They beg me for just one more,
I'll take them to the candy store;
I'll buy them everything they see
The way my grandpa does for me.
Edgar A. Guest
Click to listen to midi.
Silver Threads Among the Gold
Darling, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold,
Shine upon my brow today,
Life is fading fast away;
But, my darling, you will be, will be,
Always young and fair to me,
Yes, my darling, you will be,
Always young and fair to me.
Darling, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold,
Shine upon my brow today,
Life is fading fast away.
Eban E. Rexford
Click to listen to midi.
Love Me
I read a note my Grandma wrote back in 1923,
Grandpa kept it in his coat and he showed it once to me.
He said, Boy, you might not understand but a long long time ago.
Grandma's daddy didn't like me none, but I loved your Grandma so.
We had this crazy plan to meet and run away together,
Get married in the first town we came to and live forever.
But nailed to the tree where we were supposed to meet instead,
I found this letter and this is what it said,
If you get there before I do, don't give up on me,
I'll meet you when my chores are through; I don't know how long I'll
be,
But I'm not gonna let you down Darlin' wait and see
And, between now and then, till I see you again,
I'll be loving you, Love Me.
I read those words just hours before my Grandma passed away,
In the doorway of a church where me and Grandpa stopped to pray.
I know I'd never seen him cry in all my fifteen years.
But as he said these words to her, his eyes filled up with tears.
If you get there before I do don't give up on me.
I'll meet you when my chores are through, I don't know how long I'll
be,
But I'm not gonna let you down, Darlin' wait and see.
And, between now and then, till I see you again,
I'll be loving you, Love, Me
And between now and then ,till I see you again,
I'll be loving you. Love Me
Collin Raye
Click to listen to midi.
When Your Hair Has Turned to Silver
Here is my heart with all my love
They both belong to you;
Year after year I'll love you dear.
No matter what we go through.
When your hair has turned to silver,
I will love you just the same;
I will only call you sweetheart,
That will always be your name.
Through a garden filled with roses
Down the sunset trail we'll stray.
When your hair has turned to silver
I will love you as today.
Always it seems I've built my dreams
All bound around you dear;
And I'll confess my happiness
Means having you always near.
When your hair has turned to silver,
I will love you just the same;
I will only call you sweetheart,
That will always be your name.
Through a garden filled with roses
Down the sunset trail we'll stray.
When your hair has turned to silver
I will love you as today.
Lyrics by Charles Tobias; music by Peter DeRose.
The Old-Fashioned Pair
"Tis a little old house with a squeak in the stairs,
And a porch that seems made for just two easy chairs;
In the yard is a group of geraniums red,
And a glorious old-fashioned peony bed.
Petunias, pansies and larkspurs are there
Proclaiming their love for the old-fashioned pair
Oh, it's hard now to picture the peace of the place!
Never a lovlier smile lit a fair woman's face
Than a smile of the little old lady who sits
On the porch through the bright days of summer and knits.
And a courtlier manner no prince ever had
Than the little old man that she speaks of as "dad."
In that little old house there is nothing of hate;
There are old-fashioned things by an old-fashoioned grate;
On the walls there are pictures of fine looking men
And beautiful ladies to look at and then
Time has placed on the mantel to comfort them there
The pictures of grandchildren, raidantly fair.
Every part of the house seems to whisper of joy,
Save the trinkets that speak of a little lost boy.
Yet Time has long since soothed the hurt and the pain,
And his glorious memories only remain;
The laughter of children the old walls have known,
And the joy of it stays, though the babies have flown.
I am fond of that house and that old-fashioned pair
And the glorious calm that is hovering there,
The riches of life are not silver and gold
But fine sons and daughters when we have grown old,
And I pray when the years shall have silvered our hair
We shall know the delights of that old-fashioned pair.
Edgar A. Guest
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