THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. (ALFRED TENNYSON.) FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, For the Old year lies a-dying. He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us He frothed his bumpers to the brim; He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; Old year, if you must die. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New year blithe and bold, my friend, How hard he breathes! over the snow The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, LONDON: PRINTED BY HENRY VIZETELLY, AT GOUGH SQUARE, FLEET STREET. DECEMBER, MDCCCL. 189 |