THE year is dying, - while steady, sure, and slow,
His last few solemn seconds lingering go,
I watch the clock's stern fingers ply,
Until they pass the midnight by,
And twelve swift strokes tell Time's relentless flow.
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Little, I fear, of good my year can show:
I planted naught, - we reap but what we sow;
No tears regretful dim my eye,
Though he is dying.
To me he brought but little else than woe;
Trouble and pain alone to him I owe;
Others may mourn a friend, but I
Rejoice to see his moments fly.
'T is almost time! The new year comes, and, lo!
The old year's dead!
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The Freshman Crew.
