_First Mason:_
Look up at the pointers: they 're drawing close together;
'T is here we get the earliest news of sun, and moon, and weather;
We can hear time's pulse a-ticking, with the whistling weathercock.
Drop your mortar-boards, my lads, it's coming twelve o'clock.
_Third Mason:_
Oh! it's hungry that I am with working in the wind,
But there's a shawl and bonnet--below there: do you mind?
It's Molly with the dinner-pail: she's coming in the door.
Faith, my belly thinks my throat is cut this half an hour and more.
(_The church clock strikes the noon._)