SIXTY-FOUR AND SIXTY-FIVE.
"Good bye, old friend!" and the bright young year
Sprang through his palace door,
And grasped the cold, unsteady hand
Of the dying sixty-four:
Mournfully glittered the young king's tear,
On the old king's locks of snow—
"You are passing fast from the world, old year,
Yet bless me ere you go.
Sprang through his palace door,
And grasped the cold, unsteady hand
Of the dying sixty-four:
Mournfully glittered the young king's tear,
On the old king's locks of snow—
"You are passing fast from the world, old year,
Yet bless me ere you go.
Your eye is dim, and your hand is cold,
Yet in the 'Auld lang syne'
Your breast had a measure of life's red gold
As wide and deep as mine;
And you know, old king, I only ask
Of the world a place to stand—
Room for my head, room for my heart,
Room for the sweep of my hand.
Yet in the 'Auld lang syne'
Your breast had a measure of life's red gold
As wide and deep as mine;
And you know, old king, I only ask
Of the world a place to stand—
Room for my head, room for my heart,
Room for the sweep of my hand.
9
