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| NO song nor dance I bring from yon great city, | |
| That queens it o’er our taste—the more’s the pity: | |
| Tho’ by the bye, abroad why will you roam? | |
| Good sense and taste are natives here at home: | |
| But not for panegyric I appear, | 5 |
| I come to wish you all a good New Year! | |
| Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, | |
| Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: | |
| The sage, grave Ancient cough’d, and bade me say, | |
| “You’re one year older this important day,” | 10 |
| If wiser too—he hinted some suggestion, | |
| But ’twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; | |
| And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, | |
| Said—“Sutherland, in one word, bid them Think!” | |
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| Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, | 15 |
| Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, | |
| To you the dotard has a deal to say, | |
| In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! | |
| He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, | |
| That the first blow is ever half the battle; | 20 |
| That tho’ some by the skirt may try to snatch him, | |
| Yet by the foreclock is the hold to catch him; | |
| That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, | |
| You may do miracles by persevering. | |
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| Last, tho’ not least in love, ye youthful fair, | 25 |
| Angelic forms, high Heaven’s peculiar care! | |
| To you old Bald-pate smoothes his wrinkled brow, | |
| And humbly begs you’ll mind the important-Now! | |
| To crown your happiness he asks your leave, | |
| And offers, bliss to give and to receive. | 30 |
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| For our sincere, tho’ haply weak endeavours, | |
| With grateful pride we own your many favours; | |
| And howsoe’er our tongues may ill reveal it, | |
| Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. | |
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