A year is drawing to its close,
Fleet the timely current flows,
Withered leaves and fading rose
Strew Autumn's Grave.
Golden harvest fields are bare
Corn is in the Haggard's care,
Cold poverty is in a snare
Of wire Strong.
The flowery Spuds are gathered,
Winter storms are weathered
Hens are fully feathered
With Plumage Gay.
The cow is feeding on the stubble,
The iron horse is in the stable,
Moonbeams dance upon the gable
And Frosty Air.
Youth has never known to tire,
Dancing is the hearts desire,
Lasses plenty to admire
On side-Board Screen.
If the old folk could return
See creations newly born,
Every custom bent with scorn
In This New Age.
This is how the spirit feels,
Far ahead of feet are wheels,
Who would ever shoulder creels
With Oil To Burn.
Bless all new inventive power,
Let joy take every passing hour,
Still with us are the ragged poor
In Spite Of All.
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