'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 unfurled
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.
'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 coals 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
Falling upon your glee,
And kind eyes glistening because
You chanced 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 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.
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.
But cold winds don't bring Christmas tide,
Or budding roses June;
And when it's night upon your side
We're basking in the noon.
Kind hearts make Christmas, June may bring
Blue sky or clouds above,
The only universal spring
Is that which comes with love.
And so it's Christmas in the South,
As on the North Sea coasts;
Though we are starved 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 drink to 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 that tolled
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 panelled hall.
I care not if I dream or not;
Though severed by the foam,
My heart is always in the spot
That was my childhood's home.
First published in The Queenslander, 24 December 1881
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography
See also.
'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 unfurled
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.
'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 coals 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
Falling upon your glee,
And kind eyes glistening because
You chanced 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 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.
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.
But cold winds don't bring Christmas tide,
Or budding roses June;
And when it's night upon your side
We're basking in the noon.
Kind hearts make Christmas, June may bring
Blue sky or clouds above,
The only universal spring
Is that which comes with love.
And so it's Christmas in the South,
As on the North Sea coasts;
Though we are starved 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 drink to 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 that tolled
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 panelled hall.
I care not if I dream or not;
Though severed by the foam,
My heart is always in the spot
That was my childhood's home.
First published in The Queenslander, 24 December 1881
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography
See also.
