Pray, where do the Old Years go, mamma,
When their work is over and done?
Does some one tuck them away to sleep,
Quite out of the sight of the sun?
Was there ever a year that made a mistake,
And stayed when its time was o’er,
Till it had to hurry its poor old feet,
When the New Year knocked at the door?
— MARGARET E. SANGSTER (1838–1912)