The Passing of the Year

    My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
    My den is all a cosy glow;
    And snug before the fire I sit,
    And wait to FEEL the old year go.
    I dedicate to solemn thought
    Amid my too-unthinking days,
    This sober moment, sadly fraught
    With much of blame, with little praise.

    Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
    You stand to bow your last adieu;
    A moment, and the prompter's chime
    Will ring the curtain down on you.
    Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
    You falter as a Sage in pain;
    Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
    And face your audience again.

    That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
    Let us all read, whate'er the cost:
    O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
    Is it for dear one you have lost?
    Is it for fond illusion gone?
    For trusted lover proved untrue?
    O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
    What hath the Old Year meant to you?

    And you, O neighbour on my right
    So sleek, so prosperously clad!
    What see you in that aged wight
    That makes your smile so gay and glad?
    What opportunity unmissed?
    What golden gain, what pride of place?
    What splendid hope? O Optimist!
    What read you in that withered face?

    And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
    What find you in that filmy gaze?
    What menace of a tragic doom?
    What dark, condemning yesterdays?
    What urge to crime, what evil done?
    What cold, confronting shape of fear?
    O haggard, haunted, hidden One
    What see you in the dying year?

    And so from face to face I flit,
    The countless eyes that stare and stare;
    Some are with approbation lit,
    And some are shadowed with despair.
    Some show a smile and some a frown;
    Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
    Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
    Old weary year! it's time to go.

    My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
    My fire is almost ashes too;
    But once again, before you go,
    And I prepare to meet the New:
    Old Year! a parting word that's true,
    For we've been comrades, you and I -
    I THANK GOD FOR EACH DAY OF YOU;
    There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!

Robert William Service

Robert William Service was a British-Canadian poet and writer, often referred to as 'the Bard of the Yukon.' He is best known for his poems about the Canadian North, particularly the Yukon Territory. Service's works include 'The Shooting of Dan McGrew' and 'The Cremation of Sam McGee,' which have contributed significantly to Canadian literature. His vivid and robust storytelling style, often dramatic and humorous, captivated audiences and made him a prominent literary figure of his time.

Robert William Service

The Dreamer

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

The Man from Eldorado

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

The Booby-Trap

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

The Law Of The Yukon

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

English

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The Old Year.

    The old year is dying,
    Its last hour is hieing
        Over the verge;
    The night winds are plying,
    And are mournfully sighing
        Its funeral dirge.

    And now, in its even,
    While its spirit is riven
        Through the bright zone,
    Beyond the heaven
    To whence it was given -
        To the unknown.

    Its sadness in ending
    Like a cloud is descending
        Over my soul,
    And the thoughts that are pending
    With the low winds are blending,
        Helping their dole.

    A year of existence
    Has passed to the distance
        Ne'er to return:
    To the right was resistance,
    From duty desistance,
        Nor would I learn.

    But duty neglected

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New Year's Eve

It's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear;
Only the black tide weltering, only the hissing snow;
And I, alone, like a storm-tossed wreck, on this night of the glad New Year,
Shuffling along in the icy wind, ghastly and gaunt and slow.

They're playing a tune in McGuffy's saloon, and it's cheery and bright in there
(God! but I'm weak - since the bitter dawn, and never a bite of food);
I'll just go over and slip inside - I mustn't give way to despair -
Perhaps I can bum a little booze if the boys are feeling good.

They'll jeer at me, and they'll sneer at me, and they'll call me a whiskey soak;
("Have a drink? Well, thankee kindly, sir, I don't mind if I do.")
A drivelling, dirty gin-joint fiend, the butt of the bar-room joke;
Sunk and sodden and hopeless -...

Robert William Service

The Death Of The Old Year

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend and a true truelove
And the New-year will take 'em away.
Old year you must not go;
So long you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He ...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

My Hour

Day after day behold me plying
My pen within an office drear;
The dullest dog, till homeward hieing,
Then lo! I reign a king of cheer.
A throne have I of padded leather,
A little court of kiddies three,
A wife who smiles whate'er the weather,
A feast of muffins, jam and tea.

The table cleared, a romping battle,
A fairy tale, a "Children, bed,"
A kiss, a hug, a hush of prattle
(God save each little drowsy head!)
A cozy chat with wife a-sewing,
A silver lining clouds that low'r,
Then she too goes, and with her going,
I come again into my Hour.

I poke the fire, I snugly settle,
My pipe I prime with proper care;
The water's purring in the kettle,
Rum, lemon, sugar, all are there.
And now the honest grog is steaming,
And now the...

Robert William Service

Sketch. - New Year's Day. To Mrs. Dunlop.

    This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
    To run the twelvemonth's length again:
    I see the old, bald-pated follow,
    With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
    Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
    To wheel the equal, dull routine.

    The absent lover, minor heir,
    In vain assail him with their prayer;
    Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
    Nor makes the hour one moment less.
    Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
    The happy tenants share his rounds;
    Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
    And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
    From housewife cares a minute borrow,
    That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow,
    And join with me a moralizing,
    This day's propitious to be wise in.

    First, what did...

Robert Burns

The Old Year And The New.

    I.

    As one in sorrow looks upon
        The dead face of a loyal friend,
    By the dim light of New Year's dawn
        I saw the Old Year end.

    Upon the pallid features lay
        The dear old smile - so warm and bright
    Ere thus its cheer had died away
        In ashes of delight.

    The hands that I had learned to love
        With strength of passion half divine,
    Were folded now, all heedless of
        The emptiness of mine.

    The eyes that once had shed their bright
        Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,
    And ever lidded from the light
        That made them beautiful.


    II.

    The chimes of bells were in the air,
        And sounds of mirth in hall and street...

James Whitcomb Riley