Poems (Cook)/Song of the Old Year
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.
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.