A Lay for the Old and New Year.
by Mary Howitt.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William & Mary Howitt) vol.3 #53 (01 Jan 1848).
The year is nearly ended now,
Good luck unto his swift decline!
Let's pile the fire; let's mend our cheer,
Let's watch him out, this bad old year—
This pitiless enemy of yours and mine!
From first to last he has used us ill,
Has stripped us to the very bone;
So, children don your best attire,
And draw around the parlour fire,
And let's make merry, he will soon be gone!
We've had no Christmas fun this year,
The holly only told the time;
We have not had a Christmas pie,
The birthdays went unhonoured by—
But now we will sing forth a jocund rhyme.
For when he goes he comes not back,
This bad old year of forty-seven!
He has run in debt to a vast amount;
Has overdrawn his bank-account,
And, 'neath his hand no single thing has thriven.
We had friends, by scores, when he came in,
But he has thinned their ranks amain,
Has dimmed a deal of friendship's gold,—
Has laid some true-hearts 'neath the mould,—
And now we look around, and few remain.
Ne'er may we meet his like again!
For he has been a cruel guest,
His gifts have been war, crime and debt,
The awful brand of the Gazette,
And, as a parting boon, the Cholera-pest!
Oh bitter year of woe and terror,
We all rejoice thine end to see!
Thou hast furrowed many a brow with care,
Hast silvered many a strong man's hair,
And not a tongue doth speak in praise of thee.
Thank Heaven! thy course is nearly run!
Yet we shall ne'er forget thy stay,
Nor all the sorrow thou hast brought,
Nor all the mischief thou hast wrought,
Nor all the simple joy that thou hast ta'en away.
—But hush! light shines amid the gloom,
And in my heart is faith and hope;
The year departs that brought such woe,
The year that crushed and tried us so,
That gave to drink life's bitter, wormwood cup.
Sit down, dear children, by my side,
New thoughts and better fill my brain;
There is no grief, no loss, no trial,
No days of faithful self-denial,
Which do not bring their compensating gain!
And we may not the poorer be,
For all the blight of forty-seven:
Is there no strength in hardship borne?
No stedfastness in wrong out-worn?
No heavenly peace in injuries forgiven?
'Tis thus that spiritual wealth is won:
No victory but is bought by loss;
Then shrink not, oh severely tried,
Life's gold by fire is purified,
And none can win the crown but by the cross!
The year is out!—Oh God of love
Bless thou to us the coming year!
Yet, as Thou wilt, let all things be!
And, Father, trusting all to Thee,
We face the untried future without fear!