Classic Poem

The Old Year looked at the clock,
Smiled his gallant old smile, and so
Took his beaver, arranged his stock,
Kissed her hand — while she curtseyed low —
(That demure coquette of a world,)
And sighed as she watched him go.

The Old Year closed the door;
She waited — half mirth, half fear,
Till the clock's last stroke gave o'er,
And over the casement clear —
(O, demure coquette of a world!)
Leaped that dashing blade, New Year!