Flying, sighing, dying,
Going away to-night,
Weary and old, its story told,
The year that was full and bright.
Oh, we are half sorry it's leaving
Good-by has a sound of grieving;
But its work is done and its weaving;
God speed its parting flight!

Tripping, slipping, skipping,
Like a child in its wooing grace,
With never a tear and never a fear,
And a light in its laughing face;
With hands held out to greet us,
With gay little steps to meet us,
With sweet eyes that entreat us,
The new year comes to its place.

Coming, coming, coming!
Promising lovely things--
The gold and the gray of the summer day,
The winter with fleecy-wings;
Promising swift birds glancing,
And the patter of raindrops dancing,
And the sunbeam's arrowy lancing,
Dear gifts the new year brings.

Coming, coming, coming!
The world is a vision of white;
From the powdered eaves to the sere-brown leaves