While The Billy BoilsSearchThe wiree sang that Christmas Day,A rippling, limpid, liquid layIn clump and cover trilling;On ripened grain and gleaming roadThe molten, golden sunlight glowed,The lone land’s rapture stifling.
And health and strength and youth and graceWere gathered down at Casey’s placeIn mirthful mood of madness;While, hidden in the currajong,The wiree sang his limpid song,Responsive to the gladness.
And Mary sparkled everywhere,The sunlight weaving through her hairThe colours of December;Ah, two shall strive — but one shall winAnd one shall feel the javelin’Twere poison to remember!
The silent bush that Christmas DayIn molten, golden sunlight lay,Nor bough nor leaf a-tremble;All hushed and mute, it scented asleep,Or wrapped away in musings deepThat sleep itself resemble.
One voice the outer spaces filled —That lilting lay the wiree trilled,Like raptures of a lover,“Wir-ree, Wir-ree, Itchong, Itchong” —Then rippled through its liquid song,Leaf-hidden in the cover.
And one has seen the love ariseTo shade the light of laughing eyesLike white clouds in December;But one has felt the piercing pangThat thrilled the song the wiree sang —And he shall still remember.