Volume Iii Part 21 (2/2)

A GLEE FOR WINTER

Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow, Never merry, never mellow!

Well-a-day! in rain and snow What will keep one's heart aglow?

Groups of kinsmen, old and young, Oldest they old friends among; Groups of friends, so old and true That they seem our kinsmen too; These all merry all together Charm away chill Winter weather.

What will kill this dull old fellow?

Ale that's bright, and wine that's mellow!

Dear old songs for ever new; Some true love, and laughter too; Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, And a dance when day is done.

Music, friends so true and tried, Whispered love by warm fireside, Mirth at all times all together, Make sweet May of Winter weather.

Alfred Domett [1811-1887]

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still, he doth not move; He will not see the dawn of day.

He hath no other life above, He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.

He frothed his b.u.mpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see.

But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er.

To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing c.o.c.k.

The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps; the light burns low; 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands before you die.

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you.

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