SONG OF THE OLD YEAR.
If ye tell of the sadness and evil I've wrought,
Yet remember the share of "good works" I have done;
Ye should balance the clouds and the canker I've brought
With the grapes I have sent to be crush'd in the sun.
If I've added gray threads to the worldly-wise heads,
I have deepen'd the chestnut of Infancy's curl;
If I've cherish'd the germ of the shipwrecking worm,
I've quicken'd the growth of the crown-studding pearl;
If I've lengthen'd the yew till it brushes the pall,
I have bid the sweet shoots of the orange-bloom swell;
If I've thicken'd the moss on the ruin's dank wall,
I have strengthen'd the love-bower tendrils as well.
Then speak of me fairly, and give the Old Year
A light-hearted parting in kindness and glee;
Chant a roundelay over my laurel-deck'd bier,
And bury me under the Green Holly-tree.
Yet remember the share of "good works" I have done;
Ye should balance the clouds and the canker I've brought
With the grapes I have sent to be crush'd in the sun.
If I've added gray threads to the worldly-wise heads,
I have deepen'd the chestnut of Infancy's curl;
If I've cherish'd the germ of the shipwrecking worm,
I've quicken'd the growth of the crown-studding pearl;
If I've lengthen'd the yew till it brushes the pall,
I have bid the sweet shoots of the orange-bloom swell;
If I've thicken'd the moss on the ruin's dank wall,
I have strengthen'd the love-bower tendrils as well.
Then speak of me fairly, and give the Old Year
A light-hearted parting in kindness and glee;
Chant a roundelay over my laurel-deck'd bier,
And bury me under the Green Holly-tree.
Ye have murmur'd of late at my gloom-laden hours,
And look on my pale, wrinkled face with a frown;
But ye laugh'd when I spangled your pathway with flowers,
And flung the red clover and yellow corn down.
Ye shrink from my breathing, and say that I bite—
So I do—but forget not how friendly we were
When I fann'd your warm cheek in the soft, summer night,
And just toy'd with the rose in the merry girl's hair.
Fill the goblet and drink, as my wailing tones sink;
Let the wassail-bowl drip and the revel-shout rise—
But a word in your car, from the passing Old Year,
'Tis the last time he'll teach ye—"be merry and wise!"
Then sing, while I'm sighing my latest farewell;
The log-lighted ingle my death-pyre shall be:
Dance, dance while I'm dying, blend carol and bell;
And bury me under the Green Holly-tree.
And look on my pale, wrinkled face with a frown;
But ye laugh'd when I spangled your pathway with flowers,
And flung the red clover and yellow corn down.
Ye shrink from my breathing, and say that I bite—
So I do—but forget not how friendly we were
When I fann'd your warm cheek in the soft, summer night,
And just toy'd with the rose in the merry girl's hair.
Fill the goblet and drink, as my wailing tones sink;
Let the wassail-bowl drip and the revel-shout rise—
But a word in your car, from the passing Old Year,
'Tis the last time he'll teach ye—"be merry and wise!"
Then sing, while I'm sighing my latest farewell;
The log-lighted ingle my death-pyre shall be:
Dance, dance while I'm dying, blend carol and bell;
And bury me under the Green Holly-tree.
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