THE PASSING OF THE YEAR

by H. Henderson.

The winged hours are going Like water darkly flowing To where there is no knowing

Nor yet can ever be.

The old year, lowly lying.

Is very weak and dying, Old Time sits sadly sighing

On a hill most lonesomelie.

He is like a spectre eerie On a lonesome hill, and dreary.

He is sighing sad and weary

At the passing of the year.

The homeless winds are calling, The white snowflakes are falling.

Our stricken hearts enthralling

Around the frozen bier.

'xMong candles dimly burning.

The mourners they are mourning.

For there is no returning.

And the hour is getting late The sad hour of his going Lone through the snow now snowing, Far, far beyond our knowing,

Goodbye, old Nineteen Eight !

Farewell now, and for ever, Here, where I stand, and shiver, On the margin of Time's river,

'Mong the pebbles and the sand.

And watch your strength a-failing, And see you ghost-like sailing.

While homeless winds are wailing

O'er an eerie midnight land.

Far o'er the dark hills ranging

'^M L4RMES ET SOURIRES

The sentinels are changing Time's ancient gateways strange in

The new replace the old, While iron bells are knelling The year we are farewelling, Hark ! their music ! smiling, swelling,

In the night so clear and cold.

The Old Year-he is dead now, His Spirit far has fled now.

Weep no longer by his bed now,

Nor lament around his bier.

Leave him there in state low-lying.

With the night's winds sighing- Hark ! don't you hear the crying

Of the new-born infant year.