The Cork Examiner, 31st December, 1861
The Volume of the Old Year’s ended,
The Volume of the New, begun
To what have all these pages tended?
Mark, what is lost, and what is won.
The opening pages are bright and fair,
Now many a blot appears,
See, here the leaves are bleak and bare,
Further on, they are blurred with tears.
Close the book gently,
Lay it away,
To be opened again,
On the Judgement Day.
Now take the Volume for Sixty-two,
‘Tis all unwritten still,
God grant its blots will be far and few,
Perhaps, ’tis the last we may till.
May each high resolve, each virtuous deed,
Be as picturing’s on the page,
It will bring thee joy, in thy utmost need,
And the sorrows of death assuage.