An Old Clock.

I’m an old wooden clock, on the mantel I stand, Pointing the hours with my slender hand; Tick-tock I say, all day and all night through, If you’ll wind me I’ll even waken you; I never smile, I look always the same, For I’m caged up in this old wooden frame. I keep on going, year in and year out, For I know just what I am about; It’s not much time that you give me to wind me, But that I demand, I’ll not run till you wind me, For I can be just as still—not a sound Will escape me until with the key I am wound. You must handle me gently, I am easily shaken, If you don’t I to the clocksmith must be taken; I’m heavy, even though I’m not very large, For the larger the clock, the smaller the charge; And the times are quite hard, at least so they say, I work for love of you, but folks work for pay. My springs are the finest of steel from the north, From the mountains of Norway I was brought forth; The fjords of that country for centuries have washed me, Till I’m the bluest of steel, none better there can be; How I came out here, I can guess, I suppose, And I have been faithful, as everyone knows. And this wooden frame, from a far away land, Is from the black forests, so stately and grand, And carved in old Switzerland, so now you can see I’m really as costly as I can be; And, with your consent, on this mantel I’ll stand, And solemnly point the hours with my slender hand.