The Daily Gazette

The old Year and the new,
The good old year hath run his race,
And the latest hour draws near;
The cold dew hangs on his hoary face,
And he hobbles along with a listless pace,
To his lonely and snow-covered residency
Place.:

In the northern hemisphere,
See how his stiff joints faint and shrink
As the cold breeze whistles by:
He hath a bitter cup to drink
As he watches the sand in his hour-glass sink,
Standing alone on the icy brink
Of the gulf of eternity,

His scanty robe is wrapped more tight
As the dim sun dwindles down;
And no stars rise to cheer the night
Or him whose temples they once made bright,
When crimson roses and lilies white
Half hid his golden crown.

He reels—he slips—no power at hand
To check him from tumbling o'er;
The hour-glass clicks with its latest sand
And each movement falls like the stroke
of a brand
On one already too weak to stand—
He falls—he is seen no more,

And, lo! in the east a star ascends,
And a burst of music comes—
A young lord, followed by troops of friends,
Down to the broad equator wends,
While the star that travels above him bends
O'er ages of floating plumes.

—Miles O'Reilly.