FAREWELL TO THE DYING YEAR.
Farewell! farewell! thou dying year;
For thee we will not mourn,
But bury thee in grave of past,
In garments worn, and torn.
And yet, thou hast not been unkind,
Thou’st giv’n more smiles than tears;
Hast giv’n us health, e’en though not wealth,
Bright hopes of coming years.
So we should bury thee with pomp,
Take off thy garments torn,
And give to thee more fitting shroud
Than that which thou hast worn.
Though we give tribute to thee new;
We’ll still remember thee.
We know thou didst the best thou couldst
While struggling to be free.
Free from the chains that bound thee down,
And though we shed no tear
At thy demise, we feel that thou
Hast given us some good cheer.
The blare of trumpets at thy death
Shouldst sorrow to us bring,
For thou canst never be recalled.
A dirge, we should then sing,
For opportunities we’ve lost.
Our chance comes not again
To do the things we should have done.
How sad the words, “It might have been.”