Adieu to 1844.
Written December 31st, at eleven o'clock, P.M.
And thou art off, old Forty-four,
With all thy good and ill attending,
To join thy kindred gone before,
And add to the eternal blending.
What varied scenes of grief and joy
Hast thou, old year, been at the making;
What myriads sent to sleep, old boy,
To 'bide the last trump's awful waking?
What thousands thou hast usher'd in
To this sad world of guilt and sorrow;
But whatsoe'er thy faults have been,
Thy reign, old boy, is o'er to-morrow.
So, part we friends, for thou hast dried
The tear from many a weeping eye;
And thy successor, when he's tried,
May perhaps be worse—and so, good bye!
Significant,—Anybody will lend you an umbrella when it doesn’t rain,
They do things well, who never try;
Right clever folks, those standers-by!
