The Dying Year.
The New Year comes tome with laughing eyes,
His hands clasped closely that I may not see,
And whispers of the wondrous gifts he holds
Safe hidden in his dimpled palms for me.
But all his promises to me are naught,
His words but fall upon a heedless ear.
To all his glowing hopes I give no thought
For I am weeping for the dying year.
Oh! Dear Old Year, and must I say farewell?
Never indeed was word so sadly said.
I care not for the New Year’s promises,
With thee my fairest hopes will soon be dead.
Old Year, thou wast indeed a friend to me
And though my joy were sometimes mixed with woe
No other year was half so kind as thee;
It breaks my heart, Old Year, to see thee go.
Hark! Now the bells ring out their merry chime!
Upon the midnight air their voices swell
A peal of welcome to the new-born year.
To me ’tis but the Old Year’s dying knell.
O, dear old friend, the hour has come at last
When I must say farewell for aye to thee.
New Years may come and Old Years pass away,
But you will never be forgot by me.