It’s cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear;

Only the black tide weltering, only the hissing snow;

And I, alone, like a storm-tossed wreck, on this night of the glad New Year,

Shuffling along in the icy wind, ghastly and gaunt and slow.

They’re playing a tune in McGuffy’s saloon,

and it’s cheery and bright in there

(God! but I’m weak—since the bitter dawn, and never a bite of food);

I’ll just go over and slip inside—I mustn’t give way to despair—

Perhaps I can bum a little booze if the boys are feeling good.

They’ll jeer at me, and they’ll sneer at me,

and they’ll call me a whiskey soak;

(“Have a drink? Well, thankee kindly, sir, I don’t mind if I do.”)

A drivelling, dirty, gin-joint fiend, the butt of the bar-room joke;

Sunk and sodden and hopeless—“Another? Well, here’s to you!”

McGuffy is showing a bunch of the boys how Bob Fitzsimmons hit;

The barman is talking of Tammany Hall, and why the ward boss got fired.

I’ll just sneak into a corner and they’ll let me alone a bit;

The room is reeling round and round …

O God! but I’m tired, I’m tired …

* * * * *

Roses she wore on her breast that night. Oh, but their scent was sweet!

Alone we sat on the balcony, and the fan-palms arched above;

The witching strain of a waltz by Strauss came up to our cool retreat,

And I prisoned her little hand in mine, and I whispered my plea of love.

Then sudden the laughter died on her lips, and lowly she bent her head;

And oh, there came in the deep, dark eyes a look that was heaven to see;

And the moments went, and I waited there, and never a word was said,

And she plucked from her bosom a rose of red and shyly gave it to me.

Then the music swelled to a crash of joy, and the lights blazed up like day,

And I held her fast to my throbbing heart, and I kissed her bonny brow.

“She is mine, she is mine for evermore!” the violins seemed to say,

And the bells were ringing the New Year in—O God! I can hear them now.

Don’t you remember that long, last waltz, with its sobbing, sad refrain?

Don’t you remember that last good-by, and the dear eyes dim with tears?

Don’t you remember that golden dream, with never a hint of pain,

Of lives that would blend like an angel-song

in the bliss of the coming years?

Oh, what have I lost! What have I lost! Ethel, forgive, forgive!

The red, red rose is faded now, and it’s fifty years ago.

’Twere better to die a thousand deaths than live each day as I live!

I have sinned, I have sunk to the lowest depths—

but oh, I have suffered so!

Hark! Oh, hark! I can hear the bells! … Look! I can see her there,

Fair as a dream … but it fades … And now—

I can hear the dreadful hum

Of the crowded court … See! the Judge looks down …

NOT GUILTY, my Lord, I swear …

The bells—I can hear the bells again! … Ethel, I come, I come! …

* * * * *

“Rouse up, old man, it’s twelve o’clock. You can’t sleep here, you know.

Say! ain’t you got no sentiment? Lift up your muddled head;

Have a drink to the glad New Year, a drop before you go—

You darned old dirty hobo … My God! Here, boys! He’s DEAD!”