Death of the Old Year.
In the silent hour of midnight
Like a mystic phantom gray,
Head bowed low in weeping sorrow,
So the Old Year steals away.
None bestow a thought upon him,
For his death none shed a tear,
All are thinking of the morrow,
Of the blithe and bright New Year.
Hastening on with weary footsteps,
Wailing oft in saddened tone:
“No one cares for all my sorrow,
No one grieves that I am gone.”
Shivering in the bitter night wind,
Death’s dark shadows looming near,
By every one he is deserted.
Poor, forsaken, sad Old Year!
Now the midnight chimes are telling
Of the gladsome New Year’s birth;
How their cheery tones are swelling
Into joyous songs of mirth
Whilst in bitter, lonely sorrow,
Passing on through pathways drear,
To the sea of dark Oblivion,
Glides the lonely, sad Old Year.
