SONG OF THE OLD YEAR.
"Miss Cinderella" and her "shoe" kept long their reigning powers,
Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my flying hours;
And "Sinbad," wondrous sailor he, allured me on his track;
And set me shouting when he flung the old man from his back.
And, oh! that tale-the matchless tale, that made me dream at night
Of "Crusoe's" shaggy robe of fur, and "Friday's" death-spurr'd flight;
Nay, still I read it, and again in sleep will come to me
The savage dancers on the sand—the raft upon the sea.
Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my flying hours;
And "Sinbad," wondrous sailor he, allured me on his track;
And set me shouting when he flung the old man from his back.
And, oh! that tale-the matchless tale, that made me dream at night
Of "Crusoe's" shaggy robe of fur, and "Friday's" death-spurr'd flight;
Nay, still I read it, and again in sleep will come to me
The savage dancers on the sand—the raft upon the sea.
Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I doubt if "Reason's Feast"
Provides a dish that pleases more than "Beauty and the Beast; "
I doubt if all the ledger leaves that bear a sterling sum,
Yield happiness like those that told of "Master Horner's plum."
Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I never pass ye by
Without a sort of furtive glance—right loving, though 'tis sly;
And fair suspicion may arise, that yet my spirit cleaves.
To dear "Old Mother Hubbard's Dog" and "Ali Baba's Thieves."
Provides a dish that pleases more than "Beauty and the Beast; "
I doubt if all the ledger leaves that bear a sterling sum,
Yield happiness like those that told of "Master Horner's plum."
Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I never pass ye by
Without a sort of furtive glance—right loving, though 'tis sly;
And fair suspicion may arise, that yet my spirit cleaves.
To dear "Old Mother Hubbard's Dog" and "Ali Baba's Thieves."
SONG OF THE OLD YEAR.
Oh! I have been running a gallant career
On a courser that needeth nor bridle nor goad:
But he'll soon change his rider, and leave the Old Year
Lying low in the dust on Eternity's road.
Wide has my track been, and rapid my haste,
But whoever takes heed of my journey will find,
That in marble-built city and camel-trod waste,
I have left a fair set of bold way-marks behind.
I have choked up the earth with the sturdy elm-board;
I have chequer'd the air with the banners of strife;
Fresh are the tombstones I've scatter'd abroad,
Bright are the young eyes I've open'd to life.
My race is nigh o'er on Time's iron-grey steed,
Yet he'll still gallop on as he gallops with me;
And you'll see that his mane will be flying again
Ere you've buried me under the Green Holly-tree.
On a courser that needeth nor bridle nor goad:
But he'll soon change his rider, and leave the Old Year
Lying low in the dust on Eternity's road.
Wide has my track been, and rapid my haste,
But whoever takes heed of my journey will find,
That in marble-built city and camel-trod waste,
I have left a fair set of bold way-marks behind.
I have choked up the earth with the sturdy elm-board;
I have chequer'd the air with the banners of strife;
Fresh are the tombstones I've scatter'd abroad,
Bright are the young eyes I've open'd to life.
My race is nigh o'er on Time's iron-grey steed,
Yet he'll still gallop on as he gallops with me;
And you'll see that his mane will be flying again
Ere you've buried me under the Green Holly-tree.
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