 | Australian Lyrics &c |  |
THE TWO BIRTHDAYS.
My birthday has come round again—the sun is heaven high,
As suns in February are in the Australian sky;
The north-wind lays the waves to sleep upon Port Philip's breast,
And Nature, wearied with the heat, apes the uneasy rest
That sick folk have—too tired to move, yet not thereby refresht.
As suns in February are in the Australian sky;
The north-wind lays the waves to sleep upon Port Philip's breast,
And Nature, wearied with the heat, apes the uneasy rest
That sick folk have—too tired to move, yet not thereby refresht.
'Twas not thus when five years ago to man's estate I came,
The seasons, scenery, and sights and sounds were not the same,
For crisp against the frosty sky stood out the rugged stones
Of Oxford's gray old colleges and shrines of founders' bones,
While half a hundred towers swung sweet chimes of ancient tones.
The seasons, scenery, and sights and sounds were not the same,
For crisp against the frosty sky stood out the rugged stones
Of Oxford's gray old colleges and shrines of founders' bones,
While half a hundred towers swung sweet chimes of ancient tones.
This morning at the pitch of noon, as I was leaning back
On a cane lounge some trader bought while lying at Cuttack,
The glare and heat that filtered through the greenness of the blind
Laid a soft soporific spell of languor on my mind,
And nod by nod, against my will, to slumber I declined.
On a cane lounge some trader bought while lying at Cuttack,
The glare and heat that filtered through the greenness of the blind
Laid a soft soporific spell of languor on my mind,
And nod by nod, against my will, to slumber I declined.
Forthwith before my eyes were drawn vistas of Oxford days,
My panelled room, with ceiling low and cushion'd window-bays,
And the great hall, with ancient glass and giant fireplaces,
And wainscot walls with portraits hung of notabilities,
Who had their share of glory in the dead old centuries.
My panelled room, with ceiling low and cushion'd window-bays,
And the great hall, with ancient glass and giant fireplaces,
And wainscot walls with portraits hung of notabilities,
Who had their share of glory in the dead old centuries.
And then the arching limewalk, with its summer coat of green,
And the broad lawns of levelled turf, with gravelled walks between.
'Twas 'mid the limes one day in June that Rosy first I met,
Dressed in a wilderness of lace and creamy sarcenet,
And with a saucy Gainsborough above her forehead set.
And the broad lawns of levelled turf, with gravelled walks between.
'Twas 'mid the limes one day in June that Rosy first I met,
Dressed in a wilderness of lace and creamy sarcenet,
And with a saucy Gainsborough above her forehead set.
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Sweet Rosy, she had eyes that danced to match her fitful moods,
Now they shot fire from their ports, now swam with swelling floods,
Now laughed, now sympathized—she'd change a dozen times a day,
And every change was chronicled in some mercurial way,
By the swift orbs that stood alert, as the red stag at bay.
Now they shot fire from their ports, now swam with swelling floods,
Now laughed, now sympathized—she'd change a dozen times a day,
And every change was chronicled in some mercurial way,
By the swift orbs that stood alert, as the red stag at bay.
Rosy and I had many a tiff, spent many hours together
In that delightful avenue, in June and joyous weather;
Now we were friends, and hovering most perilously near
To that sweet state when clasped hands cling, and mothers look severe,
Proportionately as one has or hasn't much a year.
In that delightful avenue, in June and joyous weather;
Now we were friends, and hovering most perilously near
To that sweet state when clasped hands cling, and mothers look severe,
Proportionately as one has or hasn't much a year.
Now we were foes at daggers drawn, and Rosy's pupils shone
With the grim light that nitre gives when on the fire it's thrown;
The while she fingered savagely the coil of gleaming hair,
That lay against her slender neck as beautifully fair
As were the locks, in story famed, of Arthur's Guinevere.
With the grim light that nitre gives when on the fire it's thrown;
The while she fingered savagely the coil of gleaming hair,
That lay against her slender neck as beautifully fair
As were the locks, in story famed, of Arthur's Guinevere.
It was a dream: my studious feet tread Oxford stones no more;
This many a day I've stood upon a far-off southern shore,
Where frosts in June strike down the leaves from off the yellowing trees
And February reigns in blue over the heavens and seas,
And the North hath a burning breath and the South a cooling breeze.
This many a day I've stood upon a far-off southern shore,
Where frosts in June strike down the leaves from off the yellowing trees
And February reigns in blue over the heavens and seas,
And the North hath a burning breath and the South a cooling breeze.
Here daily ladies meet my gaze fairer than Rosy far,
And full of smiles as southern skies of cloudless mornings are—
Ladies whose free and daring life has bred a free brave grace,
Such as our ancestresses had—blue-eyed and fair of face,
Ere yet our Viking sires had left the cradle of our race.
And full of smiles as southern skies of cloudless mornings are—
Ladies whose free and daring life has bred a free brave grace,
Such as our ancestresses had—blue-eyed and fair of face,
Ere yet our Viking sires had left the cradle of our race.
Yet, somehow, none can exercise the same charm over me
That Rosy with her pouts and frowns wielded so royally:
A spring has dried up in my heart—the sun has left the skies
That tinged with magic hues whatever she set before my eyes,
And since the old tune died away I cannot harmonize.
That Rosy with her pouts and frowns wielded so royally:
A spring has dried up in my heart—the sun has left the skies
That tinged with magic hues whatever she set before my eyes,
And since the old tune died away I cannot harmonize.
| Australian Lyrics &c | |