Then, leaving the door wide open,
To stand in the silent street
And, with a generous "welcome,"
The entering guest to greet.

It suited our youthful fancy,
And, when the glad chimes began,
From our cosy nook by the fireside
Down into the street we ran.

And, far and near, we all could hear
The great bells ringing out the year,
And, as they tolled, the music rolled,
Hoarse-sounding, over town and wold.

"The year is dead," _Gros Bourdon_ said,
The clanging echoes quivering fled,
And, far and wide, on every side,
The bells to one another cried.

The mountain woke, and from its cloak
Shook off the echoes, stroke for stroke.
Then silence fell on hill and bell,
And echoes ceased to sink and swell.

Standing beside the door wide open thrown,
Her voice more musical than any bird's,
And with a winning sweetness all its own,
Our Queen thus winged her joyous thoughts with words: