Hark! there comes at midnight hour
Sound like funeral knell,
Chaining us with magic power,
Whispering, "Farewell."
'Tis the dying year's last sigh
Mingling with the storm;
Closes now his hollow eye,
Sinks his feeble form.
Still at midnight, dark and lone,
Mournful echoes ring,
Murmuring in solemn tone,
"Time is on the wing."