Ah! The Clock Is Always Slow; It

Alas! The Road To Anywhere Is Pitfalled With Disaster; There's Hunger, Want, And Weariness, Yet O We Loved It So! As On We Tramped Exultantly, And No Man Was Our Master, And No Man Guessed What Dreams Were Ours, As, Swinging Heel And Toe, We Tramped The Road To Anywhere, The Magic Road To Anywhere, The Tragic Road To Anywhere, Such Dear, Dim Years Ago.

And Each Forgets, As He Strips And Runs With A Brilliant, Fitful Pace, It's The Steady, Quiet, Plodding Ones Who Win In The Lifelong Race. And Each Forgets That His Youth Has Fled, Forgets That His Prime Is Past, Till He Stands One Day, With A Hope That's Dead, In The Glare Of The Truth At Last.

There's A Race Of Men That Don't Fit In, A Race That Can't Sit Still; So They Break The Hearts Of Kith And Kin, And They Roam The World At Will. They Range The Field And Rove The Flood, And They Climb The Mountain's Crest; Their's Is The Curse Of The Gypsy Blood, And They Don't Know How To Rest.

Old Year! Upon The Stage Of Time You Stand To Bow Your Last Adieu; A Moment, And The Prompter's Chime Will Ring The Curtain Down On You.

Even Goats May Have Starlight In Their Eyes.