From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 184-185.
THE NEW YEAR’S SUN
I send the joyful message forth
That good old Sol is coming north.
He paused upon his southward track,
I gather from the almanac,
Then slowly, surely started back.
O soon he’ll quit those far off geezers,
The southern zone Antipodesers,
And they in turn will be the freezers.
But though he leave the gents forlorn
Who cluster south of Capricorn,
I trust this thought may ease their pain,
That southern loss is northern gain;
And none should scowl or knit his brow,
For they have got their innings now.
While here we wither with pneumonia,
Sweet summer singes Patagonia.
While we have snow and ice all over,
New Zealand lies knee-deep in clover.
They’re picking peaches in Tasmania
While frost is frizzling Pennsylvania.
With last year’s resolutions rusted,
Some rules of conduct we have busted,
But since the sun has made the turn
[185]
Our souls with high resolve should burn.
Let’s shake, December thirty-first,
Besetting sins with which we’re cursed,
And ere we seek out cots and couches,
Cut out our meanness and our grouches.