Then to my surprise he began to sing, and to sing well. His voice
was strong, clear, and mellow, and its tones rose and fell in the
silent night air with a pathetic and wonderful sweetness. The burden
of his song was "We may be happy yet."
"Oh, smile as thou wert wont to smile,
Before a weight of care
Had crushed thine heart, and yet awhile
Left only sorrow there;
We may be happy yet."
He sang three stanzas, and was silent. Then someone said: "Poor old
fellow; I hope he may be happy yet."
Next morning he was sitting with his back against the gum tree. His
fire had gone out, and he seemed to be late in awaking, and in no
hurry to resume his journey. But his travels were finished; he never
awoke. His body was quite cold, and he must have died soon after he
had sung the last note of his song. He had only sixpence in his
pocket--the sixpence I had given him for his biography. The police
took him in charge once more and put him in his last prison, where he
will remain until we shall all be called together by the dread blast
of the Archangel's trumpet on the Judgment Day.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Book of the Bush, by George Dunderdale
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF THE BUSH ***
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