The New Year Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

The old man he is dead, young heir,
And gone to his long account;
Come, stand on his hearth, and sit in his chair,
And into his saddle mount!

The old man's face was a face to be fear'd,
But thine both loving and gay;
Oh who would not choose for that stern white beard,
A bright young cheek alway?

The old man he had outlived them all,
His friends, he said, were gone;
But hundreds are wassailing now in the hall,
And true friends every one!

The old man moan'd both sore and long
Of pleasures past, he said;
But pleasures to come are the young heir's song,
The living, not the dead!

The old man babbled of old regrets,
Alack! how much he owed:
But the young heir was not a feather of debts
His heart withal to load!

The old man used to shudder, and seem
Remembering secret sin;
But the happy young heir is as if in a dream,
Paradise all within!

Alas! for the old man,-- where is he now?
And fear for thyself, young heir;
For he was innocent once as thou,
As ruddy and blythe and fair:

Reap wisdom from his furrow'd face,
Cull counsel from his fear;
Oh speed thee, young heir, in gifts and in grace,
And blessings on thee,-- New Year!