Ah! the year is slowly dying, And the wind in tree-top sighing, Chant his requiem. Thick and fast the leaves are falling, High in air wild birds are calling, Nature’s solemn hymn.
In the deep, dark forest lingers, Imprints of his icy lingers, Chill, and dark, and cold. And the little streamlets flowing, Wintry sun so softly glowing, Through the maple’s gold.
So, Old Year, gird on your armor, Let not age, nor fear, nor favor, Hurry you along. List! the farewell echoes pealing, List! the midnight hour is stealing, Hark! thy dying song.