(The Old Year comes to bid good-bye to certain, young people.)
OLD YEAR.
When first, my young friends, I came to this place,
('Twas almost a twelvemonth ago),
With joy you beheld my merry young face,
Though my beard is now white as the snow.
I gave each a book, on its pages to trace
A journal, as days onward flow;
Now what's in it writ,
Let me look upon it,
For I very much want to know.
CHORUS OF YOUNG PEOPLE.
Oh! What's in it writ,
Let us look upon it,
We all very much want to know.
FIRST BOY.
In my book there's a great deal of pleasure and fun,
Ninety-nine games I played, yes, and three matches won!
A ball came and hit me right in the eye,
I was made for three days in darkness to lie,
But I jumped up again, for I "never say die!"
I lost one whole day in a troublesome thicket;
There's little put down but of racing and cricket!
OLD YEAR.
Oh! Look at your pages, look at them, do!
The idle fish-insect has nibbled them through.
Let play have its place—
The game and the race,
But duty comes first in a noble boy's case.
SECOND BOY.