  A happy measure smites the ear. It pealeth full, it pealeth clear; And at the “witching hour” of night, Awakes a rapture of delight. Across the land, across the sea, The merry strain is borne along; While even seraphs bend the knee Before the majesty of song. Old Year—alas, we cannot stay Thy eager footsteps for a day; Thy work is done, and thou shalt go, A rival is at hand we know. Across the land, across the sea, The merry strain is borne along; Ah! surely it is bliss to flee Upon the pinions of a song. Hark!—clear and strong and full and free, I hear the bells saluting thee; They seem to say “Old Year, adieu”— And “halleluiah” to the New. Across the land, across the sea, The merry peal is borne along, And all the world must happy be To hear the oft-repeated song. |
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