To Two Friends Married In The New Year (To. Mr. And Mrs. Welch) Another Year To Its Last Day, Like A Lost Sovereign, Runaway, Tips Down The Gloomy Grid Of Time: In Vain To Holloa, 'Stop It! Hey!' - A Cab-Horse That Has Taken Fright, Be You A Policeman, Stop You May; But Not A Sovereign Mad With Glee That Scampers To The Grid, Perdie, And Not A Year That's Taken Flight; To Both 'Tis Just A Grim Good Night. But No! The Imagery, Say You, Is Wondrous Witty - But Not True; For The Old Year That Last Night Went Has Not Been So Much Lost As Spent: You Gave It In Exchange To Death For Just Twelve Months Of Happy Breath. It Was A Ticket To Admit Two Happy People Close To Sit - A 'Season' Ticket, One Might Say, At Time'S Eternal Passion Play. O Magic Overture Of Spring, O Summer Like An Eastern King, O Autumn, Splendid Widowed Queen, O Winter, Alabaster Tomb Where Lie The Regal Twain Serene, Gone To Their Yearly Doom. But All You Bought With That Spent Year, - Ah, Friends! It Was As Nothing, Was It? Nothing At All To Hold Compare With What You Buy With This New Year. A Home! Ah Me, You Could Not Buy Another Half So Precious Toy, With All The Other Years To Come As That Grown-Up Doll'S House - A Home. O Wine Upon Its Threshold Stone, And Horse-Shoes On The Lintel Of It, And Happy Hearts To Keep It Warm, And God Himself To Love It! Dear Little Nest Built Snug On Bough Within The World-Tree'S Mighty Arms, I Would I Knew A Spell That Charms Eternal Safety From The Storm; To Give You Always Stars Above, And Always Roses On The Bough - But Then The Tree'S Own Root Is Love, Love, Love, All Love, I Vow. New Year 1893.