┬ęKate Rusby

Old ManTime is a rare old man, but a young man he ever will remain
With his long grey beard, and his clothes are plain
Oh and Old Man Time is his name
When one flower dies, the old man he cries
The young man, he plants the seeds again
With a careful hand, he tends the sand
Oh and Old Man Time is his name

This old man has an hourglass for every soul on the land
Oh Old Man Time, perhaps in mine,
It's the one with the fastest sand
No sooner is it turned, back through the glass it's churned
I'm wishing I could have each hour again
With a careful hand, he tends the sand
Oh and Old Man Time is his name

To me, old man, your timing's rare, did God not give you all my sand?
Or maybe mine I had to share
Or is there some left in your hand?
They tell me time is gold, well maybe it's been sold
Or is it simply washed away in vain?
With a careful hand, he tends the sand
Oh and Old Man Time is his name

If I brought it in a sack, do you think he'd put some back
And know one day across my path he'll come
But as for now, I can't say how
I know the old man's work is far from done
For Old Man Time has just begun