245
BY B. FLETCHER ROBINSON
I.
Come, lads, another log, I pray,
Upon the fire to-night!
May Nineteen Hundred—hard to say,
And harder still to write
Bring luck to all of British birth
Where’er they're scattered o’er the earth!
II.
This stranger “Nineteen,” who this day
So bashfully appears,
Has come, my friends, to make a stay
Of just a hundred years,
The troubles that he sees we know;
What will he witness ere he go?
III.
But fears aside! Rise one and all
And give him welcome due.
What matter if our bills be tall
Or our receipts be few?
In face of such a glad event
The sourest bailiff will relent.
IV.
Throw off dull care! The gloomy dun,
So greatly feared by those
Forgetful youths who payments shun,
Now, smiling sweetly, goes
Right gaily dancing to and fro
Upon the light, fantastic toe.
V.
The men the needy public hates,
To see whene’er they call
And ask for “gas” and “water” rates,
Are welcomed now by all.
For who would dare, upon this day,
To hint at sums we ought to pay?
VI.
For now it’s hands across the board,
And hands across the sea,
Good fellowship and bon accord
Amongst the brave and free;
Away with every craven fear,
To golden hope a glad New Year!
