I thought I could have my own Carols by Bloglight instead. Sing with me!
CHRISTMAS DAY
The North Wind is tossing the leaves,
The red dust is over the town,
The sparrows are under the eaves,
And the grass in the paddock is brown;
As we lift up our voices and sing
To the Christ-Child the Heavenly King.
The tree-ferns in green gullies sway;
The cool stream flows silently by;
The joy bells are greeting the day,
And the chimes are adrift in the sky,
As we lift up our voices and sing
To the Christ-Child the Heavenly King.
CAROL OF THE BIRDS
Out on the plains the brolgas are dancing,
Lifting their feet like war horses prancing,
Up to the sun the woodlarks go winging,
Faint in the dawn light echoes their singing,
Orana! Orana!Orana! To Christmas Day.
Down where the tree-ferns grow by the river,
There where the waters sparkle and quiver,
Deep in the gullies Bell-birds are chiming,
Softly and sweetly their lyric notes rhyming
Orana! Orana!Orana! To Christmas Day.
Friar-birds sip the nectar of flowers,
Currawongs chant in wattle-tree bowers,
In the blue ranges Lorikeets calling,
Carols of bushlands rising and falling,
Orana! Orana!Orana! To Christmas Day.
Sing along!
I doubt you'll find this one at many CbyC sessions, but these are my Carols, and this is one of my favourites:
Some seasonal poetry:
It's not Australian, but I love it
Journey of the Magi
TS Eliot
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times when we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wineskins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
One of the great Australian Christmas poems, catering also for the expat Scots among us:
Santa Claus In The Bush
AB Paterson
It chanced out back at the Christmas time,
When the wheat was ripe and tall,
A stranger rode to the farmer's gate
A sturdy man and a small.
"Rin doon, rin doon,
my little son Jack,
and bid the stranger stay,
And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne,
for the morn is Christmas day."
"Nay noo, nay noo,"
said the dour guidwife,
"But ye should let him be,
He's maybe only a drover chap,
From the land o' the Darling Pea."
"Wi a drovers tales,
and a drover's thirst
tae swiggle the hail nicht through,
Or he's maybe a life assurance carle,
to talk ye black and blue."
"Guidwife, he's never a drover chap
for their swags are neat and thin,
And he's never a life assurance carle
with the brick dust burnt in his skin."
"Guidwife, guidwife,
be nae sae dour
for the wheat stands ripe and tall
And we shore a seven pound fleece this year,
ewes and weaners and all."
"There is grass to spare and the stock are fat,
where they whiles are gaunt and thin,
And we owe a tithe to the travellin' poor,
so we maun ask him in."
"Ye can set him a chair at table side
and gie him a bite tae eat,
An omelette made of a new-laid egg,
or a tasty bit o' meat."
"But the native cats hae taen fowls-
they havena left a leg,
And he'll get nae omelette at a'
till the emu lays an egg."
"Rin doon, rin doon,
my little son Jack,
to whaur the emus bide,
Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest
while the auld cock sits beside."
"But speak them fair and speak them saft
lest they kick ye a fearful jolt,
Ye can gie them a feed of the half inch nails
or a rusty carriage bolt."
So little son Jack ran blithely down
with the rusty nails in hand,
Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched
by their nest in the open sand.
And there he has gathered the new-laid egg-
'twould feed 3 men or 4,
And the emus came for the half inch nails
right up to the settlers door.
"A waste o' food," said the dour guidwife,
as she took the egg with a frown,
"But he gets nae meat unless ye rin
a paddy-melon down."
"Gang oot, gang oot,
my little son Jack
wi your twa-three doggies sma,
Gin ye come nae back wi a paddy-melon,
then come nae back at a'."
So little son Jack he raced and he ran
and he was bare o' the feet,
And soon he captured a paddy-melon,
was gorged with stolen wheat.
"Sit doon, sit doon," my bonny wee man,
"to the best that the hoose can do,
An omelette made o' the emu egg,
and a paddy melon stew."
"'Tis well, 'tis well", said the bonny wee man,
"I have eaten the wide world's meat,
And the food that is given with right good will
is the sweetest food to eat."
"But the night draws on to Christmas Day
and I must rise and go,
For I have a mighty way to ride
to the land of the Esquimaux."
"And it's there I must load my sledges up
with the reindeers four-in-hand,
That go to the North, South, East and West,
to every Christian land."
"Tae the Esquimaux," said the dour guidwife
"ye suit my husband well,
For when he gets up on his journey horse
he's a bit o' a liar himsel'."
Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man,
to his old horse grazing nigh,
And away like a meteor flash
they went far off to the Northern sky.
When the children woke on the Christmas morn,
they chattered with might and main,
For a sword and a gun had little son Jack,
and a braw new doll had Jane,
And a packet o' screws had the twa emus,
but the dour guidwife got nane!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
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