The clock with one finger
Was made in the days
When time used to linger
By leisurely ways -

When nobody reckoned
(Or so we are told)
Each fugitive, second
More precious than gold,

But the clocks, like the people,
Took things as they came,
And the chimes in the steeple
Said mostly the same: -
'Some day -no day -
Maybe - one, day -
Come day - go day -
God - send - Sunday!'
No moral didactic
Is borne on the sound
Of its slow-footed tack-tick
The thirty hours round.

It strikes just for pastime
As chance may befall,
Be it slow time or fast time
Or no time at all.

And the crooked old hand on
Its countrified face
Keeps on and on and on
Its countrified pace,

And, scorning all worry.
Announces each day:
'There bain't no such hurry
As some folk do say;

For bring the day pleasure
Or bring the day sorrow,
I be certain to measure
Another to-morrow . . .
Some day -no day -
Maybe - one, day -
Come day - go day -
God - send - Sunday!'