A Happy New Year

Coming, coming, coming!

Listen! perhaps you'll hear

Over the snow the bugles blow

To welcome the glad new year.

In the steeple tongues are swinging,

There are merry sleigh-bells ringing,

And the people for joy are singing,

It's coming, coming near.

Flying, sighing, dying,

Going away to night,

Weary and old, its story told,

The year that was full and blight.

Oh, half we are sorry it's leaving;

Good-by has a sound of grieving;

But its work is done and its weaving:

God speed its parting flight!

Tripping, slipping, skipping,

Like a child in its wooing grace.

With never a tear and never a fear,

And a light in its laughing face;

With hands held out to greet us,

With gay little steps to meet us,

With sweet eyes that entreat us,

The new year comes to its place.

Coming, coming, coming!

Promising lovely things—

The gold and gray of the summer day,

The winter with fleecy wings;

Promising swift birds glancing,

And the patter of rain-drops dancing,

And the sunbeams' arrowy lancing,

Dear gifts the new year brings.

Coming, coming, coming!

The world is a vision white;

From the powdered eaves to the sere-brown leaves,

That are hidden out of sight.

In the steeple tongues are swinging,

The bells are merrily ringing,

And "Happy New Year" we're singing,

For the old year goes to-night.