For it's always been my practice, Sir—a bit of Punch's lore—
Since the day that I was volumed, until now I'm fifty-four
Aye, fifty-three New Years I've welcomed. This
I pray to Heaven in its arms may bear
A whole New Yearful of a nation's bliss—
A world without a tear, without a care.
'Tis thus that I have prayed, young Sir, full many years before;
But to know how oft I've prayed in vain, would make your young heart sore.
The Year that's dead was better, sure, than some;
But even he brought with him strikes and war,