 | Australian Lyrics &c |  |
A CHRISTMAS LETTER.
'Tis Christmas and the North wind blows; 'twas two years yesterday
Since from the Lusitania's bows I looked o'er Table Bay,
A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main,
Expecting when her sails unfurl'd to start for home again.
Since from the Lusitania's bows I looked o'er Table Bay,
A tripper round the narrow world, a pilgrim of the main,
Expecting when her sails unfurl'd to start for home again.
And, steaming thence three weeks or more, I reached Victoria,
Upon her hospitable shore to make a few months' stay;
But month on month unnoticed fled, and ere the year had come,
I chose the land I visited to be my future home.
Upon her hospitable shore to make a few months' stay;
But month on month unnoticed fled, and ere the year had come,
I chose the land I visited to be my future home.
'Tis Christmas, and the North wind blows; our hearts are one to-day,
Though you are 'mid the English snows I in Australia;
You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile coal upon your fires;
We strip until the storm is past, while every pore perspires.
Though you are 'mid the English snows I in Australia;
You, when you hear the Northern blast, pile coal upon your fires;
We strip until the storm is past, while every pore perspires.
I fancy I can picture you upon this Christmas night,
Just sitting as you used to do, the laughter at its height:
And then a sudden, silent pause coming upon your glee,
And kind eyes glistening because you chanc'd to think of me.
Just sitting as you used to do, the laughter at its height:
And then a sudden, silent pause coming upon your glee,
And kind eyes glistening because you chanc'd to think of me.
This morning when I woke and knew Christmas had come again,
I almost fancied I could view rime on the window-pane;
And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground,
And see the drip that downward steals in icy fetters bound.
I almost fancied I could view rime on the window-pane;
And hear the ringing of the wheels upon the frosty ground,
And see the drip that downward steals in icy fetters bound.
I daresay you've been on the lake, or sliding on the snow,
And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow,
Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa's made;
The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.
And breathing on your hands to make the circulation flow,
Nestling your nose among the furs of which your boa's made;
The Fahrenheit here registers a hundred in the shade.
It doesn't seem like Christmas here with this unclouded sky,
This pure transparent atmosphere and with the sun so high;
To see the rose upon the bush, the leaves upon the trees,
To hear the forest's summer hush or the low hum of bees.
This pure transparent atmosphere and with the sun so high;
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To hear the forest's summer hush or the low hum of bees.
But cold winds bring not Chrismastide, or budding roses June,
And when it's night upon your side we're basking in the noon.
Kind hearts make Christmas—June can bring blue sky or clouds above;
The only universal spring is that which comes with love.
And when it's night upon your side we're basking in the noon.
Kind hearts make Christmas—June can bring blue sky or clouds above;
The only universal spring is that which comes with love.
And so its Christmas in the South as on the North-Sea coasts,
Though we are starv'd with summer-drouth, and you with winter frosts.
And we shall have our roast beef here, and think of you the while
Who in the other hemisphere cling to the mother isle.
Though we are starv'd with summer-drouth, and you with winter frosts.
And we shall have our roast beef here, and think of you the while
Who in the other hemisphere cling to the mother isle.
Feel sure that we shall think of you, we who have wandered forth;
And many a million thoughts will go to-day from south to north;
Old heads will muse on churches old, where bells will ring to-day—
The very bells, perchance, which toll'd their fathers to the clay.
And many a million thoughts will go to-day from south to north;
Old heads will muse on churches old, where bells will ring to-day—
The very bells, perchance, which toll'd their fathers to the clay.
And now, good night! maybe I'll dream that I am with you all,
Watching the ruddy embers gleam over the panell'd hall;
Nor care I if I dream or not, though sever'd by the foam,
My heart is always in the spot which was my childhood's home.
Watching the ruddy embers gleam over the panell'd hall;
Nor care I if I dream or not, though sever'd by the foam,
My heart is always in the spot which was my childhood's home.
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