Old Year, farewell; thy hours are swiftly flying,
Thy sands are well-nigh run;
Old Year, we come to look upon thee dying,
And welcome in thy son.

And as we see thy dim eyes slowly glazing,
And hear thy labouring breath,
Thy voice no vain and useless protest raising
Against the power of Death,

We almost wonder thus to see thee going
So peaceful and serene,
When hearts are sad and eyes are overflowing
For England's widowed Queen,

Whom thou hast ravished of her dearest treasure,
Leaving her now to feel
A yearning want in every earthly pleasure,
Which time can never heal.

Old Year, thy death-roll tells a mournful story
Of useful lives removed;
Forms have been crushed in manhood's pride and glory,
And hearts are still that loved!

Old Year, above thy passing-bell's sad tolling,
There sounds as from afar
The muttered under-tone of battle rolling,
And thunder-note of war.

It comes across the broad Atlantic sweeping —
That sound so wild and dread;
'Tis heard above a mighty nation's weeping
For him so lately dead.

And we must leave our peaceful avocations
To battle for the right,
And prove that England's arm among the nations
Has still the power to smite.

But, hark! those bells of late chiming so sadly
Again salute the ear:
Their silvery voices sounding sweetly, gladly,
Ring in the fair New Year.

Oh, may those joy-bells be to us a token
Of what the year will be!
May England's hallowed peace remain unbroken,
Her people still be free!

Thus, though the Old Year is rung out with sorrow,
The new one is rung in
With joy, that speaks of many a bright to-morrow
When gladness shall begin.

To take the place of grief, and cot and palace
Will hear the joyful strain,
And lips that long have pressed the bitter chalice
Shall taste the sweet again.

That over all this fair land, sea-surrounded,
The wail of woe may cease,
And the grim fiend of War may be confounded
By the sweet angel Peace.