A LAMENT FOR THE DYING YEAR

Recast by Sir T. Sinclair.

The swift-winged hours are going, With cares my pathway sowing, (Ah ! where ? I'm all unknowing,) But with some joys may be.

The old year's lowly lying, Is very ill, nay, dying, And Time sits sadly sighing, Whilst grief oppresses me»

Time is no longer cheery.

But on a long hill dreary He witnesses, while weary, The dying of the year.

The moaning winds are calling.

The soft snow flakes are falling, My heart alas, appalling, I'm shedding many a tear.

'Mongst candles dimly burning, Death's secrets I'm now learning.

Ah ! this year's ne'er returning, The time is growing late.

The sad hour of his going Whilst o'er the land 'tis snowing, How far ? Beyond my knowing.

Adieu ! year Nineteen-eight.

Farewell ! Ah me ! I quiver, Here where I stand and shiver, I'm near to Death's dread river, In my dear native land.

The old year's strength is failing, I see that he is ailing, While saddening winds are wailing O'er all the sea and strand.

O'er my past memory's ranging.

Ah ! hearts to me are changing.

My sympathies estranging.

New ties can't match the old.

Soon bells will here be knelling, The old year's death thus telling,

My grief nought then dispelling For lost friends, hearts ot gold.

The old year's almost dead now, His spirit's nearly fled now, I weep tears hy his hed now, I'll grieve beside his bier.

I'll not leave him now dying, My heart for him is sighing, He's dead, I hear the crying Of the bright new born year.