The Coo-ee Reciter Part 5

Bells, joyous bells of the Christmas-time, Dear is the song of your welcome chime; Dear is the burden that softly wells From your joyous throats, O tolling bells!

Dear is the message sweet you bind Dove-like to wings of the wafting wind.

You tell how the Yule-king cometh forth From his home in the heart of the icy North; On his Eastern steeds how rusheth on The wind-G.o.d of storms, Euroclydon; How his trumpet strikes to the pallid stars That shrink from the mad moon's silver bars, Where the cold wind tortures the sobbing sea, And the chill sleet pierces the pinioned lea, As the snow king hurls from his frozen zone The fragments fast of a tumbled throne.

But what is the song, O silver bells, You sing of the ferny Austral dells, Of the bracken height, and the sylvan stream, And the breezy woodland's summer dream, Lulled by the lute of the slow sweet rills In the trembling heart of the great grave hills?

Ah, what is the song that you sing to me Of the soft blue isles of our shimmering sea, Where the slow tides sleep, and a purple haze Fringes the skirts of the windless bays,

That, ringed with a circlet of beauty fair, Start in the face of the dreamer there; O, what is the burden of your sweet chimes, Bells of the golden Christmas times?

You sing of the summer gliding down From the stars that gem bright heaven's crown; Of the flowers that fade in the autumn sere, And the sunlit death of the old, old year.

Of the sweet South wind that sobs above The gra.s.s-green grave of our buried love: No bitter dirge from the stormy flow Of a moaning sea,--ah! no, no, no!

But a sweet farewell, and a low soft hymn Under the beautiful moons that swim Over the silver seas that toss Their foam to thy shrine, O Southern Cross!

O, bright is the burden of your sweet chimes, Bells of the joyous Christmas times!

You bring to the old hearts throbbing slow The beautiful dreams of the long ago; Remembrance sweet of the olden Yule, When hearts beat high in life's young school.

Ah, haply now, as they list to your chimes, Will the voices rise of the olden times, Till the wings of peace brood over the hours Slipping like streams through sleepy bowers, While you whisper the story loved of One Who suffered for us--the sad sweet Son-- Who taught that afflictions, sent in love, Chasten the soul for the realms above.

_WOOL IS UP._

Earth o'erflows with nectared gladness, All creation teems with joy; Banished be each thought of sadness, Life for me has no alloy.

Fill a b.u.mper!--drain a measure, Pewter! goblet! tankard! cup!

Testifying thus our pleasure At the news that "Wool is up."

'Thwart the empires, 'neath the oceans, Subtly speeds the living fire; Who shall tell what wild emotions Spring from out that thridden wire?

"Jute is lower--copper weaker,"

This will break poor neighbour Jupp; But for me, I shout "Eureka!"

Wealth is mine--for wool is up!

What care I for jute or cotton, Sugar, copper, hemp, or flax!

Reeds like these are often rotten, Turn to rods for owners' backs.

Fortune! ha! I have thee holden In what Scotia calls a "grup,"

All my fleeces now are golden, Full troy weight--for wool is up!

I will dance the gay fandango (Though to me its steps be strange), Doubts and fears, you all can hang go!

I will cut a dash on 'Change.

Atra Cura, you will please me By dismounting from my crup-- Per--you no more shall tease me, Pray get down--for wool is up!

Jane shall have that stylish bonnet Which my scanty purse denied; Long she set her heart upon it, She shall wear it now with pride.

I will buy old Dumper's station, Reign as king at Gerringhup, For my crest a bust of Jason, With this motto, "Wool is up."

I will keep a stud extensive; Bolter, here! I'll have those greys, Those Sir George deemed too expensive, You can send them--with the bays.

Coursing! I should rather think so; Yes, I'll take that "Lightning" pup; Jones, my boy, you needn't wink so, I can stand it--wool is up!

Wifey, love, you're looking charming, Years with you are but as days; We must have a grand house-warming When these painters go their ways.

Let the ball-room be got ready, Bid our friends to dance and sup: Bother! _how_ can I "go steady"?

I'm worth thousands--wool is up!

GARNET WALCH.

_WOOL IS DOWN._

Blacker than 'eer the inky waters roll Upon the gloomy sh.o.r.es of sluggish Styx, A surge of sorrow laps my leaden soul, For that which was at "two" is now "one--six."

"Come, disappointment, come!" as has been said By someone else who quailed 'neath Fortune's frown, Stab to the core the heart that once has bled, (For "heart" read "pocket")--wool, ah! wool is down.

"And in the lowest deep a lower deep,"

Thou sightless seer, indeed it may be so, The road to--well, we know--is somewhat steep, And who shall stay us when that road we go?

Thrice cursed wire, whose lightning strikes to blast, Whose babbling tongue proclaims throughout the town The news, which, being ill, has travelled fast, The dire intelligence that--wool is down.

A rise in copper and a rise in jute, A fall alone in wool--but what a fall!

Jupp must have made a pile this trip, the brute, He don't deserve such splendid luck at all.

The smiles for him--for me the scalding tears; He's worth ten thousand if he's worth a crown, While I--untimely shorn by Fate's harsh shears-- Feel that my game is up when wool is down.

Bolter, take back these prancing greys of thine, Remove as well the vanquished warrior's bays, My fortunes are not stable, they decline; Aye, even horses taunt me with their neighs.

And thou, sweet puppy of the "Lightning" breed, Through whose fleet limbs I pictured me renown, Hie howling to thy former home with speed, Thy course with me is up--for wool is down.

Why, Jane, what's this--this pile of letters here?

Such waste of stamps is really very sad.

Your birthday ball! Oh, come! not _twice_ a year, Good gracious me! the woman must be mad.

You'd better save expense at once, that's clear, And send a bellman to invite the town!

There--there--don't cry; forgive my temper, dear, But put these letters up--for wool is down.

My station "Gerringhup"--yes, that must go, Its sheep, its oxen, and its kangaroos, First 'twas the home of blacks, then whites, we know, Now is it but a dwelling for "the blues."

With it I leave the brotherhood of Cash Who form Australian Fashion's tinsel crown; I tread along the devious path of Smash, I go where wool has gone--down, ever down.

Thus ends my dream of greatness; not for me The silken couch, the banquet, and the rout, They're flown--the base _residuum_ will be A mutton chop and half a pint of stout-- Yet will I hold a corner in my soul Where Hope may nestle safe from Fortune's frown.

Thou hoodwinked jade! my heart remaineth whole-- I'll keep my spirits up--though wool be down.

GARNET WALCH.

_THE HIGHLAND BRIGADE BURIES ITS DEAD._

BY LIEUT.-COLONEL W. T. REAY.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

How am I to describe the sadly impressive scene at Modder River on the evening of the 13th of December? The sun has just set, and the period of twilight has commenced. The great heat of the day has pa.s.sed, and although there is not a breath of wind, the air is cool and refreshing.

The whole British camp at Modder River is astir. Not, however, with the always gay bustle of warlike preparations; not with the laughter and jest which--such strange creatures are we--almost invariably come from the lips of men who dress for the parade which precedes a plunge into battle. There is this evening a solemn hush over the camp, and the men move from their lines in irregular and noiseless parties, for the time their pipes put out of sight, and their minds charged with serious thought. To what is given this homage of silence as the soldiers gather, and mechanically, without word of command or even request of any kind, leave a roadway from the head-quarters' flag to a point a quarter of a mile away, where a dark mound of upraised earth breaks the monotonous flatness of the whitey-green veldt? For these are mere spectators, deeply interested, it is true, yet still only spectators. What, then, is afoot? Civilians, hats off, and attention everyone. The Highland Brigade is about to bury its dead.