To where the old clock’s pendulum swung slowly to and fro,
With measured beat, that seemed to speak of the days of long ago.
Sick unto death—in the room above—lay the host of the Jolly Swan.
And far and near, his kinsmen had, to seek the doctors, gone,
For the jovial face and the merry laugh of the host of yesterday
Had all departed, leaving naught but the mould of the living clay.
Alone in his chamber he watched the sun slope down to his Western bower,
And a gentle smile stole o’er his face, as the old clock chimed the hour.
His thoughts were of the days gone by—as the host of the Jolly Swan,
He had raised his tankard high and drank to the health of the old friends gone.