We beheld the old year dying
In the country of our birth;
When the drifted snow was lying
On the hard and frozen earth
When the love of home was round us,
By the blazing Christmas fires;
And the love of country bound us
To the hearthstones of our sires.
But our sons will see the glory
Of the young and springing year;
Where the green earth tells the story
Of a younger hemisphere.
And the eve will lose its sadness
In the hopefulness of day,———
In a birth so full of gladness,———
In a death without decay.
But for us the morning’s garland
Glistens still with evening’s dew;———
We—the children of a far land,
And the fathers of a new.
For we still, through old affection,
Hear the old year’s dying sigh,
Through the sad sweet recollection
Of the years that are gone by.
While, through all the future gleaming,
A bright golden promise runs,
And its happy light is streaming
Of the greatness of our sons.
Pray we, then, whate’er betide them———
Howsoever great they’re grown———
That the past of England guide them,
While the present is their own!